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Cuff's Fight with "Figs." 

















Boys and Girls 








from Thackeray 








. By! 

Kate Dickinson Sweetser 








(^Author of " Boys and Girls from George Eliot," 
^'Ten Girls from Dickens," etc.) 








Pictures by 
GEORGE ALFRED WILLIAMS 








S 








NEW YORK 








Duffield £# Company 








MCMVII 















iLii^Si^.rtY of CONGRESS 
Iwo Coules Received 

SEP B '90/' 

-^Coovrnrtvt Bntry 
CLASl/A XXC, No, 
COr-Y B. 






3^ 



Copyright, 1907, by 

DUFFIELD & COMPANY 

Published August, igo/ 



PREFACE 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY— the 
name is dear to all lovers of classic fiction, who 
have wandered in enchanted lands, following the 
fortunes of Colonel Newcome, Becky Sharp, Henry Es- 
mond, and a host of other familiar characters created by 
the great novelist. 

To an unusual degree, Thackeray dwells on the child- 
hood and youth of the characters he depicts, lingering 
fondly and in details over the pranks and pastimes, the 
school and college days of his heroes and heroines, as though 
he wished to call especial attention to the interest of that 
portion of their career. 

That Thackeray has so emphasised his sketches of juvenile 
life, warrants the presentation of those sketches in this 
volume and as complete stories, without the adult intrigue 
and plot with which they are surrounded in the novels from 
which they are taken. The object in so presenting them is 
twofold: namely, to create an interest in Thackeray's work 
among young readers to whom he has heretofore been un- 
known, and to form a companion volume to those already 
given such a hearty welcome — Boys and Girls from Dickens 
and George Eliot. 

K. D. S. 

New York^ 1907. 



CONTESTS 


Henry Esmond ...... 


I 


The Virginians 


63 


Becky Sharp at School .... 


• 135 


Cuff's Fight with " Figs " 


• IS' 


George Osborne— Rawdon Crawley . 


165 


Clive and Ethel Newcome . . : . 


219 


Arthur Pendennis 


295 


Caroline . . . . 


337 



HENRY ESMOND 




Henry Esmond and the Castlewoods. 



BOYS AND GIRLS 
from THACKERAY 



HENRY ESMOND 



WHEN Francis, fourth Viscount Castlewood, 
came to his title, and, presently after, to take 
possession of his house of Castlewood, County 
Hants, in the year 1691, almost the only tenant 
of the place besides the domestics was a lad of 
twelve years of age, of whom no one seemed to take any 
note until my Lady Viscountess lighted upon him, going 
over the house with the housekeeper on the day of her ar- 
rival. The boy was in the room known as the book-room, 
or yellow gallery, where the portraits of the family used 
to hang. 

The new and fair lady of Castlewood found the sad, 
lonely little occupant of this gallery busy over his great 
book, which he laid down when he was aware that a 
stranger was at hand. And, knowing who that person must 
be, the lad stood up and bowed before her, performing 
a shy obeisance to the mistress of his house. 

She stretched out her hand — ^indeed, when was it that 
that hand would not stretch out to do an act of kindness, 
or to protect grief and ill-fortune? "And this is our kins- 
man, I believe," she said; " and what is your name, kins- 
man?" 

3 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

" My name is Henry Esmond," said the lad, looking 
up at her in a sort of delight and wonder, for she appeared 
the most charming object he had ever looked on. Her 
golden hair was shining in the gold of the sun; her com- 
plexion was of a dazzling bloom; her lips smiling and her 
eyes beaming with a kindness which made Harry Esmond's 
heart to beat with surprise. 

" His name is Henry Esmond, sure enough, my lady," 
says Mrs. Worksop, the housekeeper; and the new Vis- 
countess, after walking down the gallery, came back to the 
lad, took his hand again, placing her other fair hand on 
his head, saying some words to him which were so kind, 
so sweet that the boy felt as if the touch of a superior 
being, or angel, smote him down to the ground, and he 
kissed the fair protecting hand as he knelt on one knee. 
To the very last hour of his life Esmond remembered the 
lady as she then spoke and looked: the rings on her fair 
hands, the very scent of her robe, the beam of her eyes 
lighting up with surprise and kindness, her lips blooming 
in a smile, the sun making a golden halo round her hair. 

As the boy was yet in this attitude of humility, enters 
behind him a portly gentleman, with a little girl of four 
years old. The gentleman burst into a great laugh at the 
lady and her adorer, with his little, queer figure, his sallow 
face, and long black hair. The lady blushed and seemed 
to deprecate his ridicule by a look of appeal to her hus- 
band, for it was my Lord Viscount who now arrived, and 
whom the lad knew, having once before seen him in the late 
lord's lifetime. 

"So this is the little priest!" says my lord, who knew 
for what calling the lad was intended, and adding: "Wel- 
come, kinsman." 

" He is saying his prayers to mamma," says the little 

4 



HENRY ESMOND 

girl, and my lord burst out into another great laugh at this, 
and kinsman Harry looked very silly. He invented a half- 
dozen of speeches in reply, but 'twas months afterwards 
when he thought of this adventure; as it was, he had never 
a word in answer. 

" he pauvre enfant, il na que nous," says the lady, 
looking to her lord; and the boy, who understood her, 
though doubtless she thought otherwise, thanked her with 
all his heart for her kind speech. 

" And he shan't want for friends here," says my lord 
in a kind voice. " Shall he, little Trix? " 

The little girl, whose name was Beatrix, and whom 
her papa called by this diminutive, looked at Henry Es- 
mond solemnly with a pair of large eyes, and then a smile 
shone over her face, which was as beautiful as that of a 
cherub, and she came up and put out a little hand to him. 
A keen and delightful pang of gratitude, happiness, affec- 
tion filled the orphan child's heart as he received these 
tokens of friendliness and kindness. But an hour since, 
he had felt quite alone in the world; when he heard the 
great peal of bells from Castlewood church ringing to wel- 
come the arrival of the new lord and lady it had rung 
only terror and anxiety to him, for he knew not how the 
new owner would deal with him; and those to whom he 
formerly looked for protection were forgotten or dead. 
Pride and doubt, too, had kept him within doors, when the 
Vicar and the people of the village, and the servants of 
the house, had gone out to welcome my Lord Castlewood 
— for Henry Esmond was no servant, though a dependent; 
no relative, though he bore the name and inherited the 
blood of the house; and in the midst of the noise and accla- 
mations attending the arrival of the new lord, for whom 
a feast was got ready, and guns were fired, and tenants 

5 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

and domestics huzzahed when his carriage rolled into the 
court-yard of the Hall, no one took any notice of young 
Henry Esmond, who sat alone in the book-room until his 
new friends found him. 

When my lord and lady were going away from the 
book-room, the little girl, still holding him by the hand, 
bade him come too, 

" Thou wilt always forsake an old friend for a new 
one, Trix," says her father good-naturedly, and went into 
the gallery, giving an arm to his lady. They passed thence 
through the music-gallery, long since dismantled, and 
Queen Elizabeth's rooms, in the clock-tower, and out into 
the terrace, where was a fine prospect of sunset and the 
great darkling woods with a cloud of rooks returning, and 
the plain and river with Castlewood village beyond, and 
purple hills beautiful to look at; and the little heir of 
Castlewood, a child of two years old, was already here on 
the terrace in his nurse's arms, from whom he ran across 
the grass instantly he perceived his mother, and came to 
her. 

" If thou canst not be happy here," says my lord, look- 
ing round at the scene, " thou art hard to please, Rachel." 

" I am happy where you are," she said, lovingly; and 
then my lord began to describe what was before them to 
his wife, and what indeed little Harry knew better than 
he — viz., the history of the house: how by yonder gate 
the page ran away with the heiress of Castlewood, by which 
the estate came into the present family; how the Round- 
heads attacked the clock-tower, which my lord's father 
was slain in defending. " I was but two years old then," 
says he, " but take forty-six from ninety, and how old shall 
I be, kinsman Harry? " 

" Thirty," says his wife, with a laugh. 

6 



HENRY ESMOND 

" A great deal too old for you, Rachel," answers my 
lord, looking fondly down at her. Indeed she seemed to 
be a girl, and was at that time scarce twenty years old. 

" You know, Frank, I will do anything to please you," 
says she, " and I promise you I will grow older every day." 

"You mustn't call papa Frank; you must call him 
' my lord,' now," says Miss Beatrix, with a toss of her little 
head ; at which the mother smiled, and the good-natured 
father laughed, and the little trotting boy laughed, not 
knowing why — but because he was happy, no doubt — as 
everyone seemed to be there. 

Presently, however, as the sun was setting, the little 
heir was sent howling to bed, while the more fortunate little 
Trix was promised to sit up for supper that night — " and 
you will come too, kinsman, won't you?" she said. 

Harry Esmond blushed: "I — I have supper with Mrs. 
Worksop," says he. 

But the new Viscount Castlewood refused to hear ot 
that, and said, "Thou shalt sup with us, Harry, to-night! 
Shan't refuse a lady, shall he, Trix? "—and Harry enjoyed 
the unexpected pleasure of an evening meal with the new 
lord of Castlewood and his gracious family. 

Later, when Harry got to his little chamber, it was 
with a heart full of surprise and gratitude towards the new 
friends whom this happy day had brought him. The next 
morning he was up and watching long before the house 
was astir, longing to see that fair lady and her children 
again; and only fearful lest their welcome of the past 
night should in any way be withdrawn or altered. But 
presently little Beatrix came out into the garden, and her 
mother followed, who greeted Harry as kindly as before 
and listened while he told her the histories of the house, 
which he had been taught in the old lord's time, and to 

7 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

which she listened with great interest; and then he told 
her, with respect to the night before, that he understood 
French and thanked her for her protection. 

" Do you? " says she, with a blush; " then, sir, you shall 
teach me and Beatrix." 

And she asked him many more questions regarding 
himself, to which she received brief replies, the substance 
of which was afterward amplified into certain facts con- 
cerning the past of the orphan boy, which it is well to 
note here and now. 

It seemed that in former days, in a little cottage in 
the village of Ealing, near to London, for some time had 
dwelt an old French refugee, by name Mr. Pastoureau, 
one of those whom the persecution of the Huguenots by the 
French king had brought over to England. With this old 
man lived a little lad, who went by the name of Henry 
Thomas, but who was no other than Henry Esmond. He 
remembered to have lived in another place a short time be- 
fore, near to London, too, amongst looms and spinning 
wheels, and a great deal of psalm-singing and church-going, 
and a whole colony of Frenchmen. 

There he had a dear, d,ear friend, who died, and whom 
he called Aunt. She used to visit him in his dreams some- 
times; and her face, though it was homely, was a thousand 
times dearer to him than that of Mrs. Pastoureau, Bon Papa 
Pastoureau's new wife, who came to live with him after 
aunt went away. And there, at Spittlefields, as it used to 
be called, lived Uncle George, who was a weaver, too, but 
used to tell Harry that he was a little gentleman, and that 
his father was a captain, and his mother an angel. 

When he said so, Bon Papa used to look up from the 
loom, where he was embroidering beautiful silk flowers, 
and shake his head. He had a little room where he always 



HENRY ESMOND 

used to preach and sing hymns out of his great old nose. 
Little Harry did not like the preaching; he liked better 
the fine stories which aunt used to tell him. Bon Papa's 
new wife never told him pretty stories; she quarrelled with 
Uncle George, and he went away. 

After this, Harry's Bon Papa, and his wife and two 
children of her own that she had brought with her, came to 
live at Ealing. The new wife gave her children the best 
of everything, and Harry many a whipping, he knew not 
why. So he was very glad when a gentleman dressed in 
black, on horseback, with a mounted servant behind him, 
came to fetch him away from Ealing. The unjust step- 
mother gave him plenty to eat before he went away, and 
did not beat him once, but told the children to keep their 
hands off him. One was a girl, and Harry never could 
bear to strike a girl; and the other was a boy, whom he 
could easily have beat, but he always cried out, when Mrs. 
Pastoureau came sailing to the rescue with arms like a flail. 
She only washed Harry's face the day he went away; nor 
ever so much as once boxed his ears. She whimpered 
rather when the gentleman in black came for the boy, and 
pretended to cry; but Harry thought it was only a sham, 
and sprung quite delighted upon the horse upon which the 
lackey helped him. This lackey was a Frenchman; his 
name was Blaise. The child could talk to him in his own 
language perfectly well. He knew it better than English, 
indeed, having lived hitherto among French people, and 
being called the Little Frenchman by other boys on Ealing 
Green. 

The lackey was very talkative and informed the boy 
that the gentleman riding before him was my lord's chap- 
lain, Father Holt; that he was now to be called Master 
Harry Esmond; that my Lord Viscount Castlewood was 

9 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

his patron ; that he was to live at the great house of Castle- 
wood, in the province of shire, where he would see 

Madame the Viscountess, who was a grand lady, and that 
he was to be educated for the priesthood. And so, seated 
on a cloth before Blaise's saddle, Harry Esmond was 
brought to London, and to a fine square called Covent 
Garden, near to which his patron lodged. 

Mr. Holt, the priest, took the child by the hand and 
brought him to this grand languid nobleman, who sat in 
a great cap and flowered morning-gown, sucking oranges. 
He patted Harry on the head and gave him an orange, and 
directed Blaise to take him out for a holiday; and out for 
a holiday the boy and the valet went. Harry went jump- 
ing along; he was glad enough to go. 

He remembered to his life's end the delights of those 
days. He was taken to see a play, in a house a thousand 
times greater and finer than the booth at Ealing Fair; and 
on the next happy day they took water on the river, and 
Harry saw London Bridge, with the houses and book- 
sellers' shops on it, looking like a street, and the tower 
of London, with the Armour, and the great lions and bears 
in the moat — all under company of Monsieur Blaise. 

Presently, of an early morning, all the party set forth 
for the country, and all along the road the Frenchman told 
little Harry stories of brigands, which made the child's 
hair stand on end, and terrified him; so that at the great 
gloomy inn on the road where they lay, he besought to be 
allowed to sleep in a room with one of the servants, and 
Father Holt took pity on him and gave the child a little 
bed in his chamber. 

His artless talk and answers very likely inclined this 
gentleman in his favour, for next day Mr. Holt said Harry 
should ride behind him, and not with the French lackey; 

lO 



HENRY ESMOND 

and all along the journey put a thousand questions to the 
child — as to his foster-brother and relations at Ealing; 
what his old grandfather had taught him; what languages 
he knew; whether he could read and write, and sing, and 
so forth. And Mr. Holt found that Harry could read and 
write, and possessed the two languages of French and 
English very well. The lad so pleased the gentleman by 
his talk that they had him to dine with them at the inn, and 
encouraged him in his prattle; and Monsieur Blaise, with 
whom he rode and dined the day before, waited upon him 
now. 

At length, on the third day, at evening, they came to 
a village on the green with elms around it, and the people 
there all took ofif their hats, and made curtsies to my Lord 
Viscount, who bowed to them all languidly; and there was 
one portly person that wore a cassock and a broad-leafed 
hat, who bowed lower than anyone, and with this one both 
my lord and Mr. Holt had a few words. 

" This, Harry, is Castlewood church," says Mr. Holt, 
" and this is the pillar thereof, learned Dr. Tusher. 
Take off your hat, sirrah, and salute Dr. Tusher!" 

" Come up to supper. Doctor," says my lord ; at which 
the Doctor made another low bow, and the party moved 
on towards a grand house that was before them, with many 
grey towers, and vanes on them, and windows flaming in 
the sunshine, and they passed under an arch into a court- 
yard, with a fountain in the centre, where many men came 
and held my lord's stirrup as he descended, and paid great 
respect to Mr. Holt likewise. 

Taking Harry by the hand as soon as they were both 
descended from their horses, Mr. Holt led him across the 
court, to rooms on a level with the ground, one of which 
Father Holt said was to be the boy's chamber, the other on 

II 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

the other side of the passage being the Father's own. As 
soon as the little man's face was washed, and the Father's 
own dress arranged, Harry's guide took him once more to 
the door by which my lord had entered the hall, and up a 
stair, and through an ante-room to my lady's drawing- 
room — an apartment than which Harry thought he had 
never seen anything more grand — no, not in the Tower of 
London, which he had just visited. Indeed, the chamber 
was richly ornamented in the manner of Queen Elizabeth's 
time, with great stained windows at either end, and hang- 
ings of tapestry, which the sun shining through the col- 
oured glass painted of a thousand hues; and here in state, 
by the fire, sat a lady to whom the priest took up Harry, 
who was indeed amazed by her appearance. 

My Lady Viscountess's face was daubed with white 
and red up to the eyes, to which the paint gave an unearthly 
glare. She had a tower of lace on her head, under which 
was a bush of black curls — borrowed curls — so that no 
wonder little Harry Esmond was scared when he was first 
presented. to her, the kind priest acting as master of the 
ceremonies at that solemn introduction, and he stared at 
her with eyes almost as great as her own, as he had stared 
at the player woman who acted the wicked tragedy-queen, 
when the players came down to Ealing Fair. She sat in 
a great chair by the fire-corner; in her lap was a spaniel- 
dog that barked furiously; on a little table by her was her 
ladyship's snufT-box and her sugar-plum box. She wore a 
dress of black velvet, and a petticoat of flame-coloured 
brocade. She had as many rings on her fingers as the old 
woman of Banbury Cross; and pretty, small feet which she 
was fond of showing, with great gold clocks to her stock- 
ings, and white slippers with red heels; and an odour of 
musk was shaken out of her garments whenever she moved 

12 



I 
HENRY ESMOND 

or quitted the room, leaning on her tortoise-shell stick, 
little Fury, the dog, barking at her heels, and Mrs. Tusher, 
the parson's wife, by her side. 

" I present to your ladyship your kinsman and little 
page of honour. Master Flenry Esmond," Mr. Holt said, 
bowing lowly, with a sort of comical humility. " Make 
a pretty bow to my lady, Monsieur; and then another little 
bow, not so low, to Madame Tusher." 

Upon my lady the boy's whole attention was for a 
time directed. He could not keep his great eyes from her. 
Since the Empress of Ealing, he had seen nothing so awful. 

"Does my appearance please you, little page?" asked 
the lady. 

" He would be very hard to please if it didn't," cried 
Madame Tusher. 

" Have done, you silly Maria," said Lady Castlewood, 
adding, " Come and kiss my hand, child"; and little Harry 
Esmond took and dutifully kissed the lean old hand, upon 
the gnarled knuckles of which there glittered a hundred 
rings. 

" To kiss that hand would make many a pretty fellow 
happy!" cried Mrs. Tusher; on which my lady cried out, 
"Go, you foolish Tusher!" and tapping her with her great 
fan, Tusher ran forward to seize her hand and kiss it. Fury 
arose and barked furiously at Tusher; and Father Holt 
looked on at this queer scene, with arch, grave glances. 

The awe exhibited by the little boy perhaps pleased 
the lady on whom this artless flattery was bestowed, for, 
having gone down on his knee (as Father Holt had directed 
him, and the fashion then was) and performed his obeis- 
ance, she asked, " Page Esmond, my groom of the chamber 
will inform you what your duties are, when you wait upon 
my lord and me; and good Father Holt will instruct you as 

13 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

becomes a gentleman of our name. You will pay him 
obedience in everything, and I pray you may grow to be 
as learned and as good as your tutor." 

Harry then put his small hand into the Father's as he 
walked away from his first presentation to his mistress, and 
asked many questions in his artless, childish way. " Who 
is that other woman?" he asked. " She is fat and round; 
she is more pretty than my Lady Castlewood." 

" She is Madame Tusher, the parson's wife of Castle- 
wood. She has a son of your age, but bigger than you." 

"Why does she like so to kiss my lady's hand? It is 
not good to kiss." 

"Tastes are different, little man. Madame Tusher is 
attached to my lady, having been her waiting-woman be-, 
fore she was married, in the old lord's time. She married 
Dr. Tusher, the chaplain. The English household divines 
often marry the waiting-women." 

"You will not marry the French woman, will you? 
I saw her laughing with Blaise in the buttery." 

" I belong to a church that is older and better than the 
English church," Mr. Holt said (making a sign, whereof 
Esmond did not then understand the meaning, across his 
breast and forehead); "in our church the clergy. do not 
marry. You will understand these things better soon." 

"Was not Saint Peter the head of your church? — Dr. 
Rabbits of Ealing told us so." 

The Father said, " Yes, he was." 

" But Saint Peter was married, for we heard only last 
Sunday that his wife's mother lay sick of a fever." On 
which the Father again laughed, and said he would under- 
stand this too better soon, and talked of other things, and 
took away Harry Esmond, and showed him the great old 
house which he had come to inhabit. 

H 



HENRY ESMOND 

It stood on a rising green hill, with woods behind it, 
in which were rooks' nests, where the birds at morning and 
returning home at evening made a great cawing. At the 
foot of a hill was a river, with a steep ancient bridge cross- 
ing it; and beyond that a large pleasant green flat, where 
the village of Castlewood stood, with the church in the 
midst, the parsonage hard by it, the inn with the black- 
smith's forge beside it, and the sign of the " Three Castles " 
on the elm. The London road stretched away towards the 
rising sun, and to the west were swelling hills and peaks, 
behind which many a time Harry Esmond saw the same 
sun setting in after years. 

The Hall of Castlewood was built with two courts, 
whereof one only, the fountain-court, was now inhabited, the 
other having been battered down in the Cromwellian wars. 
In the fountain-court, still in good repair, was the great 
hall, near to the kitchen and butteries. A dozen of living- 
rooms looked to the north, and communicated with the 
little chapel that faced eastwards, and the buildings stretch- 
ing from that to the main gate, and with the hall (which 
looked to the west) into the court, now dismantled. This 
court had been the more magnificent of the two until the 
Protector's cannon tore down one side of it before the place 
was taken and stormed. The besiegers entered at the ter- 
race under the clock-tower, slaying every man of the gar- 
rison, and at their head, my lord's brother, Francis Es- 
mond. 

The Restoration did not bring enough money to the 
Lord Castlewood to restore this ruined part of his house, 
where were the morning parlours, and above them the long 
music-gallery. Before this stretched the garden-terrace, 
where the flowers grew again which the boots of the Round- 
heads had trodden in their assault, and which was restored 

15 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

without much cost, and only a little care, by both ladies 
who succeeded the second viscount in the government of 
this mansion. Round the terrace-garden was a low wall 
with a wicket leading to a wooded height beyond, that is 
called Cromwell's Battery to this day. 

Young Harry Esmond soon learned the domestic part 
of his duty, which was easy enough, from the groom of her 
ladyship's chamber: serving the Countess, as the custom 
commonly was in his boyhood, as page, waiting at her chair, 
bringing her scented water and the silver basin after dinner 
— sitting on her carriage-step on state occasions, or on 
public days introducing her company to her. This was 
chiefly of the Catholic gentry, of whom there were a pretty 
many in the country and neighbouring city, and who rode 
not seldom to Castlewood to partake of the hospitalities 
there. In the second year of their residence, the company 
seemed especially to increase. My lord and my lady were 
seldom without visitors. 

Also there came in these times to Father Holt many 
private visitors, whom, after a little, Henry Esmond had 
no difficulty in recognising as priests of the Father's order, 
whatever their dresses (and they adopted all sorts) might 
be. They were closeted with the Father constantly, and 
often came and rode away without paying their respects 
to my lord and lady. 

Father Flolt began speedily to be so much occupied 
with these meetings as rather to neglect the education of 
the little lad who so gladly put himself under the kind 
priest's orders. At first they read much and regularly, both 
in Latin and French; the Father not neglecting in anything 
to impress his faith upon his pupil, but not forcing him 
violently, and treating him with a delicacy and kindness 
which surprised and attached the child, always more easily 

i6 



HENRY ESMOND 

won by these methods than by any severe exercise of au- 
thority. And his delight in their walks was to tell Harry 
of the glories of his order, of the Jesuits, an order founded 
by Ignatius Loyola, whose members were intimately asso- 
ciated with intrigues of church and state. He told Harry 
of its martyrs and heroes, of its brethren converting the 
heathen by myriads, traversing the desert, facing the stake, 
ruling the courts and councils, or braving the tortures of 
kings ; so that Henry Esmond thought that to belong to the 
Jesuits was the bravest end of ambition; the greatest career 
here, and in heaven the surest reward; and began to long 
for the day, not only when he should enter into the one 
church and receive his first communion, but when he might 
join that wonderful brotherhood, which numbered the wis- 
est, the bravest, the highest born, the most eloquent of men 
among its members. Father Holt bade him keep his views 
secret, and to hide them as a great treasure which would 
escape him if it was revealel ; and, proud of this confidence 
and secret vested in him, the lad became fondly attached 
to the master who initiated him into a mystery so wonder- 
ful and awful. And when little Tom Tusher, his neigh- 
bour, came from school for his holiday, and said how he, 
too. like Harry, was to be bred up for an English priest, 
and would get a college scholarship and fellowship from 
his school, and then a good living — it tasked young Harry 
Esmond's powers of reticence not to say to his young com- 
panion, " Church ! priesthood ! fat living! My dear Tommy, 
do you call yours a church and a priesthood? What is a 
fat living compared to converting a hundred thousand 
heathens by a single sermon? What is a scholarship at 
Trinity by the side of a crown of martyrdom, with angels 
awaiting you as your head is taken off? Could your master 
at school sail over the Thames on his gown? Have you 

17 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

statues in your church that can bleed, speak, walk, and 
cry? My good Tommy, in dear Father Holt's church 
these things take place every day. You know Saint Philip 
of the Willows appeared to Lord Castlewood, and caused 
him to turn to the one true church. No saints ever come 
to you." And Harry Esmond, because of his promise to 
Father Holt, hiding away these treasures of faith from T. 
Tusher, delivered himself of them nevertheless simply to 
Father Holt; who stroked his head, smiled at him with 
his inscrutable look, and told him that he did well to 
meditate on these great things, and not to talk of them 
except under direction. 

Had time enough been given, and his childish inclina- 
tions been properly nurtured, Harry Esmond had been a 
Jesuit priest ere he was a dozen years older, and might have 
finished his days a martyr in China or a victim on Tower 
Hill; for, in the few months they spent together at Castle- 
wood, Mr. Holt obtained an entire mastery over the boy's 
intellect and affections, and had brought him to think, as 
indeed Father Holt thought, with all his heart too, that 
no life was so noble, no death so desirable, as that which 
many brethren of his famous order were ready to undergo. 
By love, by a brightness of wit and good humour that 
charmed all, by an authority which he knew how to assume, 
by a mystery and silence about him which increased the 
child's reverence for him, he won Harry's absolute fealty, 
and would have kept it, doubtless, if schemes greater and 
more important than a poor little boy's admission into 
orders had not called him away. 

After being at home for a few months in tranquillity, 
my Lord Castlewood and Lady Isabella left the country for 
London, taking Father Holt with them: and his little pupil 
scarce ever shed more bitter tears in his life than he did for 



HENRY ESMOND 

nights after the first parting with his dear friend, as he lay 
in the lonely chamber next to that which the Father used 
to occupy. He and a few domestics were left as the only 
tenants of the great house: and, though Harry sedulously 
did all the tasks which the Father set him, he had many 
hours unoccupied, and read in the library, and bewildered 
his little brain with the great books he found there. 

After a while, however, the little lad grew accustomed 
to the loneliness of the place; and in after days remembered 
this part of his life as a period not unhappy. When the 
family was at London the whole of the establishment trav- 
elled thither with the exception of the porter and his wife 
and children. These had their lodging in the gate-house 
hard by, with a door into the court. That with a window 
looking out on the green was the Chaplain's room; and next 
to this was a small chamber where Father Holt had his 
books, and Harry Esmond his sleeping-closet. The side of 
the house facing the east had escaped the guns of the Crom- 
wellians, whose battery was on the height facing the west- 
ern court; so that this eastern end bore few marks of 
demolition, save in the chapel, where the painted windows 
surviving Edward the Sixth had been broke by the Com- 
monwealthmen. When Father Holt was at Castlewood lit- 
tle Harry Esmond acted as his familiar little servitor, 
beating his clothes, folding his vestments, fetching his water 
from the well long before daylight, ready to run anywhere 
for the service of his beloved priest. When the Father was 
away, he locked his private chamber; but the room where 
the books wxre was left to little Harry. 

Great public events were happening at this time, of 
which the simple young page took little count. But one 
day, before the family went to London, riding into the 
neighbouring town on the step of my lady's coach, his lord- 

19 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

ship and she and Father Holt being inside, a great mob of 
people came hooting and jeering round the coach, bawl- 
ing out, " The Bishops forever! " " Down with the Pope! " 
"No Popery! no Popery!" so that my lord began to laugh, 
my lady's eyes to roll with anger, for she was as bold as a 
lioness, and feared nobody; whilst Mr. Holt, as Esmond 
saw from his place on the step, sank back with rather an 
alarmed face, crying out to her ladyship, " For God's sake, 
madam, do not speak or look out of window; sit still." But 
she did not obey this prudent injunction of the Father; she 
thrust her head out of the coach window, and screamed out 
, to the coachman, " Flog your way through them, the brutes, 
James, and use your whip!" 

James the coachman was more afraid of his mistress 
than of the mob, probably, for he whipped on his horses as 
he was bidden, and the post-boy that rode with the first pair 
gave a cut of his thong over the shoulders of one fellow 
who put his hand out towards the leading horse's rein. 

It was a market-day, and the country-people were all 
assembled with their baskets of poultry, eggs, and such 
things; the postilion had no sooner lashed the man who 
would have taken hold of his horse, but a great cabbage 
came whirling like a bombshell into the carriage, at which 
my lord laughed more, for it knocked my lady's fan out of 
her hand, and plumped into Father Holt's stomach. Then 
came a shower of carrots and potatoes. 

The little page was outside the coach on the step, and 
a fellow in the crowd aimed a potato at him, and hit him 
in the eye, at which the poor little wretch set up a shout. 
The man, a great big saddler's apprentice of the town, 
laughed, and stooped to pick up another potato. The 
crowd had gathered quite between the horses and the inn 
door by this time, and the coach was brought to a dead 

20 



HENRY ESMOND 

standstill. My lord jumped as briskly as a boy out of the 
door on his side of the coach, squeezing little Harry behind 
it; had hold of the potato-thrower's collar in an instant, 
and the next moment the brute's heels were in the air, and 
he fell on the stones with a thump. 

" You hulking coward! " says he, " you pack of scream- 
ing blackguards! how dare you attack children, and in- 
sult women? Fling another shot at that carriage, you 
sneaking pigskin cobbler, and by the Lord I'll send my 
rapier through you!" 

Some of the mob cried, " Huzzah, my Lord! " for they 
knew him, and the saddler's man was a known bruiser, near 
twice as big as my Lord Viscount. 

" Make way there," says he (he spoke with a great 
air of authority). "Make way, and let her ladyship's car- 
riage pass." 

The men actually did make way, and the horses went 
on, my lord walking after them with his hat on his head. 

This mob was one of many thousands that were going 
about the country at that time, huzzahing for the acquittal 
of seven bishops who had been tried just then, and about 
whom little Harry Esmond knew scarce anything. The 
party from Castlewood were on their way to Hexton, where 
there was a great meeting of the gentry. My lord's people 
had their new liveries on and Harry a little suit of blue 
and silver, which he wore upon occasions of state; and the 
gentlefolks came round and talked to my lord: and a judge 
in a red gown, who seemed a very great personage, espe- 
cially complimented him and my lady, who was mighty 
grand. Harry remembers her train borne up by her gen- 
tlewoman. There was an assembly and ball at the great 
room at the inn, and other young gentlemen of the county 
families looked on as he did. One of them jeered him for 

21 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

his black eye, which was swelled by the potato, and another 
called him a cruel name, on which he and Harry fell to 
fisticuffs. My lord's cousin. Colonel Esmond of Walcote, 
was there, and separated the two lads — a great, tall gentle- 
man, with a handsome, good-natured face. 

Very soon after this my lord and lady went to London 
with Mr. Flolt, leaving the page behind them. The little 
man had the great house of Castlewood to himself; or be- 
tween him and the housekeeper, Mrs. Worksop, an old 
lady who was a kinswoman of the family in some distant 
way, and a Protestant, but a staunch Tory and kings-man, 
as all the Esmonds were. Harry used to go to school to Dr. 
Tusher when he was at home, though the Doctor was much 
occupied too. There was a great stir and commotion every- 
where, even in the little quiet village of Castlewood, 
whither a party of people came from the town, who would 
have broken Castlewood Chapel windows, but the village 
people turned out, and even old Sieveright, the republican 
blacksmith, along with them; for my lady, though she was 
a Papist, and had many odd ways, was kind to the tenantry, 
and there was always plenty of protectors for Castlewood 
inmates in any sort of invasion. 

One day at dawn, not having been able to sleep for 
thinking of some lines for eels which he had placed the 
night before, the lad was lying in his little bed waiting for 
the hour when he and John Lockwood, the porter's son, 
might go to the pond and see what fortune had brought 
them. It might have been four o'clock when he heard the 
door of Father Holt's chamber open. Harry jumped up, 
thinking for certain it was a robber, or hoping perhaps for 
a ghost, and, flinging open his own door, saw a light inside 
Father Holt's room, and a figure standing in the doorway, 
in the midst of a great smoke which issued from the room. 

22 



HENRY ESMOND 

"Who's there?" cried out the boy. 

'' Silentium! " whispereti the other; "'tis I, my boy!" 
holding his hand out, and Harry recognised Father Holt. 
A curtain was over the window that looked to the court, 
and he saw that the smoke came from a great flame of 
papers burning in a bowl when he entered the Chaplain's 
room. After giving a hasty greeting and blessing to the 
lad, who was charmed to see his tutor, the Father continued 
the burning of his papers, drawing them from a cupboard 
over the mantelpiece wall, which Harry had never seen 
before. 

Father Holt laughed, seeing the lad's attention fixed at 
once on this hole. "That is right, Harry," he said; "see 
all and say nothing. You are faithful, I know." 

" I know I would go to the stake for you," said Harry. 

" I don't want your head," said the Father, patting it 
kindly; " all you have to do is to hold your tongue. Let us 
burn these papers, and say nothing to anybody. Should 
you like to read them?" 

Harry Esmond blushed, and held down his head; he 
had looked, but without thinking, at the paper before him; 
but though he had seen it before, he could not understand 
a word of it. They burned the papers until scarce any 
traces of them remained. 

Harry had been accustomed to seeing Father Holt in 
more dresses than one; it not being safe, or worth the 
danger, for Popish priests to wear their proper dress; so 
he was in no wise astonished that the priest should now ap- 
pear before him in a riding-dress, with large buff leather 
boots, and a feather to his hat, plain, but such as gentlemen 
wore. 

" You know the secret of the cupboard," said he, laugh- 
ing, "and must be prepared for other mysteries"; and he 

23 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

opened a wardrobe, which he usually kept locked, but from 
which he now took out two or three dresses and wigs of 
different colours, and a couple of swords, a military coat 
and cloak, and a farmer's smock, and placed them in the 
large hole over the mantelpiece from which the papers had 
been taken. 

^' If they miss the cupboard," he said, " they will not 
find these; if they find them, they'll tell no tales, except that 
Father Holt wore more suits of clothes than one. All 
Jesuits do. You know what deceivers we are, Harry." 

Harry was alarmed at the notion that his friend was 
about to leave him; but "No," the priest said, "I may 
very likely come back with my lord in a few days. We are 
to be tolerated; we are not to be persecuted. But they 
may take a fancy to pay a visit at Castlewood ere our re- 
turn; and, as gentlemen of my cloth are suspected, they 
might choose to examine my papers, which concern nobody 
— at least not them." And to this day, whether the papers 
in cipher related to politics, or to the affairs of that mys- 
terious society whereof Father Holt was a member, his 
pupil, Harry Esmond, remains in entire ignorance. 

The rest of his goods Father Holt left untouched on 
his shelves and in his cupboard, taking down — with a laugh, 
however — and flinging into the brazier, where he only half 
burned them, some theological treatises which he had been 
writing. " And now," said he, " Henry, my son, you may 
testify, with a safe conscience, that you saw me burning 
Latin sermons the last time I was here before I went away 
to London; and it will be daybreak directly, and I must be 
away before Lockwood is stirring." 

"Will not Lockwood let you out, sir?" Esmond asked. 
Holt laughed; he was never more gay or good-humoured 
than when in the midst of action or danger. 

24 



HENRY ESMOND 

" Lockwood knows nothing of my being here, mind 
you," he said; "nor would you, you little wretch! had you 
slept better. You must forget that I have been here; and 
now farewell. Close the door, and go to your own room, 
and don't come out till — stay, why should you not know 
one secret more? I know you will never betray me." 

In the Chaplain's room were two windows, the one 
looking into the court facing westwards to the fountain, 
the other a small casement strongly barred, and looking 
onto the green in front of the Hall. This window was too 
high to reach from the ground; but, mounting on a buffet 
which stood beneath it, Father Holt showed Harry how, 
by pressing on the base of the window, the whole frame- 
work descended into a cavity worked below, from which it 
could be restored to its usual place from without, a broken 
pane being purposely open to admit the hand which was 
to work upon the spring of the machine. 

" When I am gone," Father Holt said, " you may push 
away the bufifet, so that no one may fancy that an exit has 
been made that way; lock the door; place the key — where 
shall we put the key? — under 'Chrysostom' on the book 
shelf; and if any ask for it, say I keep it there, and told 
you where to find it, if you had need to go to my room. 
The descent is easy down the wall into the ditch; and so 
once more farewell, until I see thee again, my dear son." 

And with this the intrepid Father mounted the buffet 
with great agility and briskness, stepped across the window, 
lifting up the bars and framework again from the other 
side, and only leaving room for Harry Esmond to stand on 
tiptoe and kiss his hand before the casement closed, the 
bars fixing as firmly as ever, seemingly, in the stone arch 
overhead. 

Esmond, young as he was, would have died sooner than 

25 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

betray his friend and master, as Mr. Holt well knew; so, 
then, when Holt was gone, and told Harry not to see him, 
it was as if he had never been. And he had this answer 
pat when he came to be questioned a few days later. 

The Prince of Orange was then at Salisbury, as young 
Esmond learned from seeing Dr. Tusher in his best 
cassock, with a great orange cockade in his broad-leafed 
hat, and Nahun, his clerk, ornamented with a like decora- 
tion. The Doctor was walking up and down in front of 
his parsonage when little Esmond saw him and heard him 
say he was going to Salisbury to pay his duty to his High- 
ness the Prince. The village people had orange cockades 
too, and his friend, the blacksmith's laughing daughter, 
pinned one into Harry's old hat, which he tore out indig- 
nantly when they bade him to cry " God save the Prince 
of Orange and the Protestant religion!" But the people 
only laughed, for they liked the boy in the village, where 
his solitary condition moved the general pity, and where he 
found friendly welcomes and faces in many houses. 

It was while Dr. Tusher was away at Salisbury that 
there came a troop of dragoons with orange scarfs, and 
quartered in Castlewood, and some of them came up to 
the Hall, where they took possession, robbing nothing, how- 
ever, beyond the hen-house and the beer-cellar: and only 
insisting upon going through the house and looking for 
papers. The first room they asked to look at was Father 
Holt's room, where they opened the drawers and cupboards, 
and tossed over the papers and clothes, but found nothing 
except his books and clothes, and the vestments in a box 
by themselves, with which the dragoons made merry, to 
Harry Esmond's horror. To the questions which the gen- 
tlemen put to Harry, he replied that Father Holt was a 
very kind man to him, and a very learned man, and Harry 

26 



HENRY ESMOND 

supposed would tell him none of his secrets if he had any. 
He was about eleven years old at that time, and looked 
as innocent as boys of his age. 

A kingdom was changing hands whilst my lord and 
lady were away. King James was flying; the Dutchmen 
were coming; awful stories about them and the Prince of 
Orange Mrs. Worksop used to tell to the idle little page, 
who enjoyed the exciting narratives. The family were 
away more than six months, and when they returned they 
were in the deepest state of dejection, for King James had 
been banished, the Prince of Orange was on the throne, 
and the direst persecutions of those of the Catholic faith 
were apprehended by my lady, who said that she did not 
believe there was a word of truth in the promises of tolera- 
tion that Dutch monster made, or a single word the per- 
jured wretch said. My lord and lady being loyal followers 
of the banished king, were in a manner prisoners in their 
own house, so her ladyship gave the little page to know, 
who was by this time growing of an age to understand what 
was passing about him, and something of the character of 
the people he lived with. 

Father Holt came to the Hall constantly, but officiated 
no longer openly as chaplain. Strangers, military and ec- 
clesiastic — Harry knew the latter, though they came in all 
sorts of disguises — were continually arriving and depart-, 
ing. My lord made long absences and sudden reappear- 
ances, using sometimes the secret window in Father Holt's 
room, though how often Harry could not tell. He stoutly 
kept his promise to the Father of not prying, and if at mid- 
night from his little room he heard noises of persons stir- 
ring in the next chamber, he turned round to the wall, and 
hid his curiosity under his pillow until he fell asleep. Of 
course, he could not help remarking that the priest's jour- 

27 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

neys were constant, and understanding by a hundred signs 
that some active though secret business employed him. 
What this was may pretty well be guessed by what soon 
happened to my lord. 

No garrison or watch was put into Castlewood when my 
lord came back, but a Guard was in the village; and one 
or other of them was always on the green keeping a look- 
out on the great gate, and those who went out and in. 
Lockwood said that at night especially every person who 
came in or went out was watched by the outlying sentries. 
It was lucky that there was a gate which their Worships 
knew nothing about. My lord and Father Holt must have 
made constant journeys at night: once or twice little Harry 
acted as their messenger and discreet aide-de-camp. He 
remembers he was bidden to go into the village with his 
fishing-rod, enter certain houses, ask for a drink of water, 
and tell the good man, "There would be a horse-market at 
Newbury next Thursday," and so carry the same message 
on to the next house on his list. 

He did not know what the message meant at the time, 
nor what was happening, which may as well, however, for 
clearness' sake, be explained here. The Prince of Orange 
being gone to Ireland, where the King was ready to meet 
him with a great army, it was determined that a great ris- 
ing of his Majesty's party should take place in this country; 
and my lord was to head the force in the Castlewood's 
county. Of late he had taken a greater lead in affairs than 
before, having the indefatigable Mr. Holt at his elbow, 
who was the most considerable person in that part of the 
county for the affairs of the King. 

It was arranged that the regiment of Scots Greys and 
Dragoons, then quartered at Newbury, should declare for 
the King on a certain day, when likewise the gentry loyal 

28 



HENRY ESMOND 

to his Majesty's cause were to come in with their tenants 
and adherents to Newbury, march upon the Dutch troops 
at Reading under Ginckel ; and, those overthrown, and 
their indomitable little master away in Ireland, it was 
thought that their side might move on London itself, and 
a confident victory was predicted for the King. 

While these great matters were in agitation, one day, it 
must have been about the month of July, 1600, my lord, in 
a great horseman's coat, under which Harry could see the 
shining of a steel breastplate he had on, called the boy to 
him, and kissed him, and bade God bless him in such an 
affectionate way as he never had used before. Father Holt 
blessed him too, and then they took leave of my Lady Vis- 
countess, who came weeping from her apartment. 

" My lord, God speed you!" she said, stepping up and 
embracing my lord in a grand manner. " Mr. Holt, I ask 
your blessing," and she knelt down for that, whilst Mrs. 
Tusher tossed her head up. 

Mr. Holt gave the same benediction to the little page, 
who went down and held my lord's stirrups for him to 
mount — there were two servants waiting there, too— and 
they rode out of Castlewood gate. 

As they crossed the bridge, Harry could see an officer in 
scarlet ride up touching his hat, and address my lord. 

The party stopped, and came to some discussion, which 
presently ended, my lord putting his horse into a canter 
after taking off his hat to the officer, who rode alongside 
him step for step, the trooper accompanying him falling 
back, and riding with my lord's two men. They cantered 
over the green, and behind the elms, and so they dis- 
appeared. 

That evening those left behind had a great panic, the 
cow-boy coming at milking-time riding one of the Castle- 

29 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

wood horses, which he had found grazing at the outer 
park-wall. It was quite in the grey of the morning when 
the porter's bell rang, and old Lockwood let him in. He 
had gone with him in the morning, and returned with a 
melancholy story. The officer who rode up to my lord had, 
it appeared, said to him that it was his duty to inform his 
lordship that he was not under arrest, but under watch, and 
to request him not to ride abroad that day. 

My lord replied that riding was good for his health, that 
if the Captain chose to accompany him he was welcome; 
and it was then that he made a bow, and they cantered away 
together. 

When he came on to Wansey Down, my lord all of a 
sudden pulled up, and the party came to a halt at the 
cross-way. 

" Sir," says he to the officer, "we are four to two; will 
you be so kind as to take that road, and leave me go mine?" 

" Your road is mine, my lord," says the officer. 

" Then " says my lord ; but he had no time to say more, 

for the officer, drawing a pistol, snapped it at his lordship; 
and at the same moment Father Holt, drawing a pistol, 
shot the officer through the head. It was done, and the 
man dead in an instant of time. The orderly, gazing at the 
officer, looked scared for a moment, and gallooed away for 
his life. 

"Fire! Fire!" cries out Father Holt, sending another 
shot after the trooper, but the two servants were too much 
surprised to use their pieces, and my lord calling to them 
to hold their hands, the fellow got away. My lord's party 
rode on; shortly after midday heard firing, then met a 
horseman who told them that the regiments declared an 
hour too soon. General Ginckel was down upon them, and 
the whole thing was at an end. " We've shot an officer on 

30 



HENRY ESMOND 

duty, and let his orderly escape," says my lord. " Blaise," 
says Mr. Holt, writing two lines on his table-book, one for 
my lady and one for Harry, " you must go back to Castle- 
wood and deliver these," and Blaise went back and gave 
Harry the two papers. He read that to himself, which only 
said, " Burn the papers in the cupboard; burn this. You 
know nothing about anything," Harry read this, ran up- 
stairs to his mistress's apartment, where her gentlewoman 
slept near to the door, made her bring a light and wake my 
lady, into whose hands he gave the other paper. 

As soon as she had the paper in her hand, Harry stepped 
back to the Chaplain's room, opened the secret cupboard 
over the fireplace, burned all the papers in it, and, as he 
had seen the priest do before, took down one of his rev- 
erence's manuscript sermons, and half burnt that in the 
brazier. By the time the papers were quite destroyed it 
was daylight. Harry ran back to his mistress again. Her 
gentlewoman ushered him again into her ladyship's cham- 
ber; she told him to bid the coach be got ready, and that 
she would ride away anon. 

But the mysteries of her ladyship's toilet were as awfully 
long on this day as on any other, and, long after 'the coach 
was ready, my lady was still attiring herself. And just 
as the Viscountess stepped forth from her room, ready for 
her departure, young John Lockwood came running up 
from the village with news that a lawyer, three officers, and 
twenty or four-and-twenty soldiers were marching thence 
upon the house. John had but two minutes the start of 
them, and, ere he had well told his story, the troop rode 
into the court-yard. 

Her gentlewoman, Victoire, persuaded her that her pru- 
dent course was, as she could not fly, to receive the troops 
as though she suspected nothing, and that her chamber was 

31 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

the best place wherein to await them. So her black Japan 
casket, which Harry was to carry to the coach, was taken 
back to her ladyship's chamber, whither the maid and mis- 
tress retired. Victoire came out presently, bidding the 
page to say her ladyship was ill, confined to her bed with 
the rheumatism. 

By this time the soldiers had reached Castlewood, and, 
preceded by their commander and a lawyer, were con- 
ducted to the stair leading up to the part of the house which 
my lord and lady inhabited. The Captain and the lawyer 
came through the ante-roorn to the tapestry parlour, where 
now was nobody but young Harry Esmond, the page. 

"Tell your mistress, little man," says the Captain kindly, 
" that we must speak to her." 

" My mistress is ill a-bed," said the page. 

"What complaint has she?" asked the Captain. 

The boy said, "The rheumatism!" 

" Rheumatism! that's a bad complaint," continues the 
good-natured Captain; "and the coach is in the yard to 
fetch the doctor, I suppose?" 

" I don't know," says the boy. 

"And how long has her ladyship been ill?" 

" I don't know," says the boy. 

" When did my lord go away? " 

"Yesterday night." 

"With Father Holt?" 

"With Mr. Holt." 

"And which way did they travel?" asks the lawyer. 

" They travelled without me," says the page. 

"We must see Lady Castlewood." 

"I have orders that nobody goes in to her ladyship — she 
is sick," says the page; but at this moment her maid came 
out. "Hush!" says she; and, as if not knowing that any 

32 



HENRY ESMOND 

one was near, "What's this noise?" says she. " Is this gen- 
tleman the doctor?" 

" Stuff! we must see Lady Castlewood," says the lawyer, 
pushing by. 

The curtains of her ladyship's room were down, and the 
chamber dark, and she was in bed with a nightcap on her 
head, and propped up by her pillows. 

"Is that the doctor?" she said. 

"There is no use with this deception, madam," Captain 
Westbury said (for so he was named). "My duty is to 
arrest the person of Thomas, Viscount of Castlewood, of 
Robert Tusher, Vicar of Castlewood, and Henry Holt, 
known under various other names, a Jesuit priest, who 
officiated as chaplain here in the late king's time, and is 
now at the head of the conspiracy which was about to 
break out in this country against the authority of their 
Majesties King William and Queen Mary — and my orders 
are to search the house for such papers or traces of the 
conspiracy as may be found here. Your ladyship will 
please give me your keys, and it will be as well for yourself 
that you should help us, in every way, in our search." 

"You see, sir, that I have the rheumatism, and cannot 
move," said the lady, looking uncommonly ghastly as she 
sat up in her bed. 

"I shall take leave to place a sentinel in the chamber, 
so that your ladyship, in case you should wish to rise, may 
have an arm to lean on," Captain Westbury said. " Your 
woman will show me where I am to look;" and Madame 
Victoire, chatting in her half-French and half-English jar- 
gon, opened while the Captain examined one drawer after 
another; but, as Harry Esmond thought, rather carelessly, 
as if he was only conducting the examination for form's 
sake. 

33 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

Before one of the cupboards Victoire flung herself down, 
and, with a piercing shriek, cried, '' Non, jamais, monsieur 
I'officier! Jamais! I will rather die than let you see this 
wardrobe." 

But Captain Westbury would open it, still with a smile 
on his face, which, when the box was opened, turned into 
a fair burst of laughter. It contained — not papers regard- 
ing the conspiracy — but my lady's wigs, washes, and rouge- 
pots, and Victoire said men were monsters, as the Captain 
went on with his search. He tapped the back to see whether 
or no it was hollow, and as he thrust his hands into the cup- 
board, my lady from her bed called out, with a voice that 
did not sound like that of a very sick woman:. 

" Is it your commission to insult ladies as well as to 
arrest gentlemen. Captain?" 

"These articles are only dangerous when worn by your 
ladyship," the Captain said, with a low bow, and a mock 
grin of politeness. " I have found nothing which concerns 
the government as yet — only the weapons with which 
beauty is authorised to kill," says he, pointing to a wig 
with his sword-tip. "We must now proceed to search the 
rest of the house." 

" You are not going to leave that wretch in the room with 
me," cried my lady, pointing to the soldier. 

"What can I do, madam? Somebody you must have to 
smooth your pillow and bring your medicine — permit 
me " 

" Sir!" screamed out my lady. 

" Madam, if you are too ill to leave the bed," the Captain 
then said, rather sternly, " I must have in four of my men 
to lift you ofif in the sheet. I must examine this bed, in a 
word; papers may be hidden in a bed as elsewhere; we 
know that very well, and " 

34 



HENRY ESMOND 

Here it was her ladyship's turn to shriek, for the Captain, 
with his fist shaking the pillows and bolsters, at last wrench- 
ing away one of the pillows, said, "Look! did not I tell 
you so? Here is a pillow stuffed with paper. And now 
your ladyship can move, I am sure; permit me to give you 
my hand to rise. You will have to travel for some dis- 
tance, as far as Hexton Castle to-night. Will you have 
your coach? Your woman shall attend you if you like— 
and the japan-box? " 

" Sir! you don't strike a man when he is down," said 
my lady, with some dignity; "can you not spare a 
woman? " 

" Your ladyship must please to rise, and let me search 
the bed," said the Captain; "there is no more time to lose 
in bandying talk." 

And, without more ado, the gaunt old woman got up. 
Harry Esmond recollected to the end of his life that figure, 
with the brocade dress under the white nightdress, and 
the gold-clocked red stockings, and white red-heeled shoes, 
sitting up in the bed, and stepping down from it. The 
trunks were ready packed for departure in her ante-room, 
and the horses ready harnessed in the stable: about all 
which the Captain seemed to know, by information got 
from some quarter or other; and whence Esmond could 
make a pretty shrewd guess in after-times, when Dr. Tusher 
complained that King William's government had basely 
treated him for services done in that cause. 

And here we may relate, though he was then too young 
to know all that was happening, what the papers contained, 
of which Captain Westbury had made a seizure, and which 
papers had been transferred from the japan-box to the bed 
when the officers arrived. 

There was a list of gentlemen of the county, in Father 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

Holt's handwriting, who were King James's friends; also 
a patent conferring the title of Marquis of Esmond on my 
Lord Castlewood and the heirs-male of his body; his ap- 
pointment as Lord-Lieutenant of the County, and Major- 
General. There were various letters from the nobility and 
gentry, some ardent and some doubtful, and all valuable to 
the men who found them, for reasons which the lad knew 
little about; only being aware that his patron and his mis- 
tress were in some trouble, which had caused the flight of 
the one and the apprehension of the other by the officers 
of King William. 

The seizure of the papers effected, the gentlemen did 
not pursue their further search through Castlewood House 
very rigorously. They only examined Mr. Holt's room, 
being led thither by his pupil, who showed, as the Father 
had bidden him, the place where the key of his chamber 
lay, opened the door for the gentlemen, and conducted them 
into the room. 

When the gentlemen came to the half-burned papers in 
the bowlj they examined them eagerly enough, and their 
young guide was a little amused at their perplexity. 

"What are these?" says one. 

"They're written in a foreign language," says the law- 
yer. "What are you laughing at, little whelp?" he added, 
turning round as he saw the boy smile. 

" Mr. Holt said they were sermons," Harry said, "and 
bade me to burn them;" which indeed was true of those 
papers. 

" Sermons, indeed — it's treason, I would lay a wager." 
cries the lawyer. 

" Egad ! it's Greek to me," says Captain Westbury. " Can 
you read it, little boy? " 

" Yes, sir, a little," Harry said. 

36 



HENRY ESMOND 

"Then read, and read in English, sir, on your peril," 
said the lawyer. And Harry began to translate: 

" Hath not one of your own writers said, 'The children 
of Adam are now labouring as much as he himself ever 
did, about the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, shak- 
ing the boughs thereof, and seeking the fruit, being for the 
most part unmindful of the tree of life.' O blind genera- 
tion! 'tis this tree of knowledge to which the serpent has 
led you " — and here the boy was obliged to stop, the rest 
of the page being charred by the fire, and asked of the law- 
yer — " Shall I go on, sir? " 

The lawyer said, "This boy is deeper than he seems: 
who knows that he is not laughing at us?" 

" Let's have in Dick the Scholar," cried Captain West- 
bury, laughing, and he called to a trooper out of the win- 
dow, " Ho, Dick, come in here and construe." 

A soldier, with a good-humoured face, came in at the 
summons, saluting his officer. 

" Tell us what is this, Dick Steele," says the lawyer. 

" 'Tis Latin," says Dick, glancing at it, and again saluting 
his officer, " and from a sermon of Mr. Cudworth's," and he 
translated the words pretty much as Henry Esmond had 
rendered them. 

"What a young scholar you are," says the Captain to 
the boy. 

" Depend on't, he knows more than he tells," says the 
lawver. " I think we will pack him off in the coach with 
the old lady." 

" For construing a bit of Latin? " said the Captain, very 
good-naturedly. 

" T would as lief go there as anywhere," Harry Esmond 
said, simply, " for there is nobody to care for me." 

There must have been something touching in the child's 

37 



BOYS AND GIRLS fro^n THACKERAY 

voice, or in this description of his solitude, for the Captain 
looked at him very good-naturedly, and the trooper called 
Steele put his hand kindly on the lad's head, and said some 
words in the Latin language. 

"What does he say?" says the lawyer. 

" I said I was not ignorant of misfortune myself, and had 
learned to succor the miserable, and that's not your trade, 
Mr. Sheepskin," said the trooper. 

" You had better leave Dick the Scholar alone, Mr. 
Corbett!" the Captain said. And Harry Esmond, alwa^^s 
touched by a kind face and a kind word, felt very grateful 
to this good-natured champion. 

The horses were by this time harnessed to the coach; and 
my Lady Isabella was consigned to that vehicle and sent off 
to Hexton, with her woman and the man-of-law to bear her 
company, a couple of troopers riding on either side of the 
coach. And Harry was left behind at the Hall, belonging, 
as it were, to nobody, and quite alone in the world. The 
Captain and a guard of men remained in possession there: 
and the soldiers, who were very good-natured and kind, ate 
my lord's mutton and drank his wine, and made themselves 
comfortable, as they well might do in such pleasant 
quarters. 

After the departure of the countess, Dick the Scholar 
took Harry Esmond under his special protection, and 
would talk to him both of French and Latin, in which 
tongues the lad found that he was even more proficient 
than Scholar Dick. Hearing that he had learned them 
from a Jesuit, in the praise of whom arid whose goodness 
Harry was never tired of speaking, Dick, rather to the 
boy's surprise, showed a great deal of theological science, 
and knowledge of the points at issue between the Catholic 
and Protestant churches; so that he and Harry would have 

38 



HENRY ESMOND 

hours of controversy together, with which conversations 
the long days of the trooper's stay at Castlewood were 
whiled away. Though the other troopers were all gentle- 
men, they seemed ignorant and vulgar to Harry Esmond, 
with the exception of this good-natured Corporal Steele, 
Scholar, although Captain Westbury and Lieutenant Trant 
were always kind to the lad. 

They remained for some months at Castlewood, and 
Harry learned from them, from time to time, how Lady 
Isabella was being treated at Hexton Castle, and the par- 
ticulars of her confinement there. King William was dis- 
posed to deal very leniently with the gentry who remained 
faithful to the old king's cause; and no Prince usurping a 
crown as his enemies said he did, ever caused less blood 
to be shed. As for women-conspirators, he kept spies on 
the least dangerous, and locked up the others. Lady Castle- 
wood had the best rooms in Hexton Castle, and the gaoler's 
garden to walk in; and though she repeatedly desired to be 
led out to execution like Mary Queen of Scots, there never 
was any thought of taking her painted old head off. She 
even found that some were friends in her misfortune, whom 
she had, in her prosperity, considered as her worst enemies. 
Colonel Francis Esmond, my lord's cousin and her lady- 
ship's hearing of his kinswoman's scrape, came to visit 
her in prison, offering any friendly services which lay in 
his power. He brought, too, his lady and little daughter, 
Beatrix, the latter a child of great beauty and many winning 
ways, to whom the old viscountess took not a little liking, 
and who was permitted after that to go often and visit the 
prisoner. 

And now there befell an event by which Lady Isabella 
recovered her liberty, and the house of Castlewood got a 
new owner, Colonel Francis Esmond, and fatherless little 

39 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

Harry Esmond, the new and most kind protector and friend, 
whom we met at the opening of this story. My Lord of 
Castlewood was wounded at the battle of the Boyne, flying 
from which field he lay for a while concealed in a marsh, 
and more from cold and fever caught in the bogs than 
from the steel of the enemy in the battle, died. 

In those days letters were slow of travelling, and that 
of a priest announcing my lord's death took two months or 
more on its journey from Ireland to England. When it 
did arrive, Lady Isabella was still confined in Hexton 
Castle, but the letter was opened at Castlewood by Captain 
Westbury. 

Harry Esmond well remembered the receipt of this let- 
ter, which was brought in as Captain Westbury and Lieu- 
tenant Trant were on the Green playing at Bowls, young 
Esmond looking on at the sport. 

" Something has happened to Lord Castlewood," Cap- 
tain Westbury said, in a very grave tone. " He is dead of 
a wound received at the Boyne, fighting for King James. 
I hope he has provided for thee somehow. Thou hast only 
him to depend on now." 

Harry did not know, he said. He was in the hands 
of Heaven, as he had been all the rest of his life. That 
night as he lay in the darkness he thought with a pang how 
Father Holt and two or three soldiers, his acquaintances 
of the last six weeks, were the only friends he had in the 
great wide world. The soul of the boy was full of love, 
and he longed as he lay in the darkness there for someone 
upon whom he could bestow it. Lady Isabella was in 
prison, his patron was dead. Father Holt was gone, — he 
knew not where, — Tom Tusher was far away. To whom 
could he turn now for comradeship? 

He remembered to his dying day the thoughts and tears 

40 



HENRY ESMOND 

of that long night — was there any child in the whole world 
so unprotected as he? 

The next day the gentlemen of the guard, who had heard 
what had befallen him, were more than usually kind to 
the child, and upon talking the matter over with Dick they 
decided that Harry should stay where he was, and abide 
his fortune; so he stayed on at Castlewood after the gar- 
rison had been ordered away. He was sorry when the kind 
soldiers vacated Castlewood, and looked forward with no 
small anxiety to his fate when the new lord and lady of 
the house, — Colonel Francis Esmond and his wife, — should 
come to live there. He was now past twelve years old and 
had an affectionate heart, tender to weakness, that would 
gladly attach itself to somebody, and would not feel at 
rest until it had found a friend who would take charge 
of it. 

Then came my lord and lady into their new domain, 
and my lady's introduction to the little lad, whom she found 
in the book-room, as we have seen. 

The instinct which led Henry Esmond to admire and 
love the gracious person, the fair apparition, whose beauty 
and kindness so moved him when he first beheld her, be- 
came soon a passion of gratitude, which entirely filled his 
young heart. There seemed, as the boy thought, in her 
every look or gesture, an angelic softness and bright pity. 
In motion or repose she seemed gracious alike; the tone 
of her voice, though she spoke words ever so trivial, gave 
him a pleasure that amounted almost to pain. It could 
not be called love, that a lad of his age felt for his mistress: 
but it was worship. To catch her glance, to divine her 
errand and run on it before she had spoken it; to watch, 
follow, adore her, became the business of his life. 

As for my Lord Castlewood, he was good-humoured, 

41 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

of a temper naturally easy, liking to joke, especially with 
his inferiors, and charmed to receive the tribute of their 
laughter. All exercises of the body he could perform to 
perfection — shooting at a mark, breaking horses, riding 
at the ring, pitching the quoit, playing at all games with 
great skill. He was fond of the parade of dress, and also 
fond of having his lady well dressed; who spared no pains 
in that matter to please him. Indeed, she would dress her 
head or cut it ofif if he had bidden her. 

My Lord Viscount took young Esmond into his special 
favour, luckily for the lad. A very few months after my 
lord's coming to Castlewood in the vv^inter time, little Frank 
being a child in petticoats, trotting about, it happened that 
little Frank was with his father after dinner, who fell 
asleep, heedless of the child, who crawled to the fire. As 
good fortune would have it, Esmond was sent by his mis- 
tress for the boy, just as the poor little screaming urchin's 
coat was set on fire by a log. Esmond, rushing forward, 
tore the dress oft, so that his own hands were burned more 
than the little boy's, who was frightened rather than hurt 
by the accident. As my lord was sleeping heavily, it cer- 
tainly was providential that a resolute person should have 
come in at that instant, or the child would have been burned 
to death. 

Ever after this, the father was loud in his expressions of 
remorse, and of admiration for Harry Esmond, and had 
the tenderest regard for his son's preserver. His burns 
were tended with the greatest care by his kind mistress, who 
said that Heaven had sent him to be the guardian of her 
children, and that she would love him all her life. 

And it was after this, and from the very great love and 
tenderness which grew up in this little household, that 
Harry came to be quite of the religion of his house, and 

42 



HENRY ESMOND 

his dear mistress, of which he has ever since been a pro- 
fessing member. 

My lady had three idols: her lord, the good Viscount of 
Castlewood, — her little son, who had his father's looks and 
curly, brown hair, — and her daughter Beatrix, who had 
his eyes — were there ever such beautiful eyes in the 
world? 

A pretty sight it was to see the fair mistress of Castle- 
wood, her little daughter at her knee, and her domestics 
gathered around her, reading the Morning Prayer of the 
English Church. Esmond long remembered how she 
looked and spoke, kneeling reverently before the sacred 
book, the sun shining upon her golden hair until it made a 
halo round about her, a dozen of the servants of the house 
kneeling in a line opposite their mistress. For a while 
Harry Esmond as a good papist kept apart from these 
mysteries, but Dr. Tusher, showing him that the prayers 
read were those of the Church of all ages, he came pres- 
ently to kneel down with the rest of the household in the 
parlour; and before a couple of years my lady had made 
a thorough convert. Indeed, the boy loved her so much 
that he would have subscribed to anything she bade him 
at that time, and the happiest period of all his life was 
this; when the young mother, with her daughter and son, 
and the orphan lad whom she protected, read and worked 
and played, and were children together. 

But as Esmond grew, and observed for himself, he found 
much to read and think of outside that fond circle of kins- 
folk. He read more books than they cared to study with 
him; was alone in the midst of them many a time, and 
passed nights over labours, useless perhaps, but in which 
they could not join him. His dear mistress divined his 
thoughts with her usual jealous watchfulness of afifection; 

43 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

began to forebode a time when he would escape from his 
home nest; and at his eager protestations to the contrary, 
would only sigh and shake her head, knowing that some day 
her predictions would come true. 

Meanwhile evil fortune came upon the inmates of Cas- 
tlewood Hall; brought thither by no other than Harry 
himself. In those early days, before Lady Mary Wortley 
Montague brought home the custom of inoculation from 
Turkey, smallpox was considered, as indeed it was, the 
most dreadful scourge of the world. The pestilence would 
enter a village and destroy half its inhabitants. At its ap- 
proach not only the beautiful, but the strongest were 
alarmed, and those fled who could. 

One day in the year 1694 Dr. Tusher ran into Castle- 
wood House with a face of consternation, saying that the 
malady had made its appearance in the village, that a child 
at the Inn was down with the smallpox. 

Now there was a pretty girl at this Inn, Nancy Sieve- 
wright, the blacksmith's daughter, a bouncing, fresh-look- 
ing lass, with whom Harry Esmond in his walks and ram- 
bles often happened to fall in; or, failing to meet her, he 
would discover some errand to be done at the blacksmith's, 
or would go to the Inn to find her. 

When Dr. Tusher brought the news that smallpox 
was at the Inn, Henry Esmond's first thought was of alarm 
for poor Nancy, and then of disquiet for the Castlewood 
family, lest he might have brought this infection to them; 
for the truth is, that Mr. Harry had been sitting that day 
for an hour with Nancy Sievewright, holding her little 
brother, who had complained of headache, on his knee; 
and had also since then been drawing pictures and telling 
stories to little Frank Castlewood, who had occupied his 
knee for an hour after dinner, and was never tired of 

44 



HENRY ESMOND 

Henry's tales of soldiers and horses. As luck would have 
it, Beatrix had not that evening taken her usual place, which 
generally she was glad enough to take, upon her tutor's 
lap^ For Beatrix, from the earliest time, was jealous of 
every caress which was given to her little brother Frank. 
She would fling away even from her mother's arms if she 
saw Frank had been there before her; she would turn 
pale and red with rage if she caught signs of affection 
between Frank and his mother; would sit apart and not 
speak for a whole night, if she thought the boy had a better 
fruit or a larger cake than hers; would fling away a ribbon 
if he had one too; and from the earliest age, sitting up in 
her little chair by the great fireplace opposite to the cor- 
ner where Lady Castlewood commonly sat at her embroi- 
dery, would utter childish sarcasm about the favour shown 
to her brother. These, if spoken in the presence of Lord 
Castlewood, tickled and amused his humour; he would 
pretend to love Frank best, and dandle and kiss him, and 
roar with laughter at Beatrix's jealousy. 

So it chanced that upon this very day, when poor Harry 
Esmond had had the blacksmith's son, and the peer's son, 
alike upon his knee, little Beatrix had refused to take that 
place, seeing it had been occupied by her brother, and, 
luckily for her, had sat at the further end of the room away 
from him, playing with a spaniel dog which she had — for 
which by fits and starts she would take a great affection — 
and talking at Harry Esmond over her shoulder, as she 
pretended to caress the dog, saying that Fido would love 
her, and she would love Fido and no one but Fido all the 
rest of her life. 

When, then. Dr. Tusher brought the news that the little 
boy at the Inn was ill with the smallpox, poor Harry Es- 
mond felt a shock of alarm, not so much for himself as 

45 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

for little Frank, whom he might have brought into peril. 
Beatrix, who had by this time pouted sufficiently (and who, 
whenever a stranger appeared, began from infancy almost 
to play ofif little graces to catch his attention), her brother 
being now gone to bed, was for taking her place upon Es- 
mond's knee: for though the Doctor was very attentive to 
her, she did not like him because he had thick boots and 
dirty hands (the pert young miss said), and because she 
hated learning the catechism. 

But as she advanced toward Esmond, he started back, 
and placed the great chair on which he was sitting between 
him and her — saying in French to Lady Castlewood, 
" Madam, the child must not approach me; I must tell you 
that I was at the blacksmith's to-day, and had his little boy 
upon my lap." 

"Where you took my son afterwards I" Lady Castlewood 
cried, very angry, and turning red. " I thank you, sir, for 
giving him such company. Beatrix," she continued in 
English, " I forbid you to touch Mr. Esmond. Come away, 
child — come to your room. Come to your room — I wish 
your reverence good-night" — this to Dr. Tusher — adding 
to Harry: '^ and you, sir, had not you better go back to your 
friends at the Inn? " 

Her eyes, ordinarily so kind, darted flashes of anger as 
she spoke; and she tossed up her head with the mien of 
a Princess, adding such words of reproach and indignation 
that Flarry Esmond, to whom she had never once before 
uttered a syllable of unkindness, stood for some moments 
bewildered with grief and rage at the injustice of her re- 
proaches. He turned quite white from red, and answered 
her in a low voice, ending his little speech with these words, 
addressed to Lord Castlewood: "Heaven bless you and 
yours for your goodness to me. I have tired her ladyship's 

46 



HENRY ESMOND 

kindness out, and I will go;" and sinking down on his 
knee, took the rough hand of his benefactor and kissed it. 

Here my lady burst into a flood of tears, and quitted the 
room, as my lord raised up Harry Esmond from his kneel- 
ing posture, put his broad hand on the lad's shoulder, and 
spoke kindly to him. Then, suddenly remembering that 
Harry might have brought the infection with him, he 
stepped back suddenly, saying, " Keep off, Harry, my boy; 
there is no good in running into the wolf's jaws, you know! " 

My lady, who had now returned to the room, said: 
" There is no use, my lord. Frank was on his knee as he 
was making pictures, and was running constantly from 
Henry to me. The evil is done, if any." 

"Not with me!" cried my lord. "I've been smoking, 
and it keeps off infection, and as the disease is in the vil- 
lage, plague take it, I would have you leave it. We'll go 
to-morrow to Wolcott." 

" I have no fear, my lord," said my lady; " it broke out 
in our house when I was an infant, and when four of my 
sisters had it at home, two years before our marriage, I 
escaped it." 

" I won't run the risk," said my lord; " I am as bold as 
any man, but I'll not bear that." 

" Take Beatrix with you and go," said my lady. " For us 
the mischief is done." 

Then my lord, calling away Tusher, bade him come to 
the oak parlour and have a pipe. When my lady and Harry 
Esmond were alone there was a silence of some moments, 
after which her ladyship spoke in a hard, dry voice of her 
objections to his intimacy with the blacksmith's daughter, 
and she added, " Under all the circumstances I shall beg 
my lord to despatch you from this house as quick as possi- 
ble; and will go on with Frank's learning as well as I can. 

47 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

I owe my father thanks for a little grounding, and you, I 
am sure, for much that you have taught me. And — I wish 
you a good-night." 

And with this she dropped a stately curtsy, and, taking 
her candle, went away through the tapestry door which 
led to her apartments. Esmond stood by the fireplace, 
blankly staring after her. Indeed, he scarce seemed to see 
until she was gone; and then her image was impressed upon 
him, and remained forever fixed upon his memory. He saw 
her retreating, the taper lighting up her marble face, her 
scarlet lip quivering, and her shining golden hair. He went 
to his own room, and to bed, where he tried to read, as his 
custom was; but he never knew what he was reading. And 
he could not get to sleep until daylight, and woke with a vio- 
lent headache, and quite unrefreshed. 

He had brought the contagion with him from the Inn, 
sure enough, and was presently laid up with the smallpox, 
which spared the Hall no more than it did the cottage. 

When Harry Esmond passed through the crisis of that 
malady, and returned to health again, he found that little 
Frank Esmond had also suffered and rallied after the dis- 
ease, and that Lady Castlewood was down with it, with a 
couple more of the household. " It was a Providence, for 
which we all ought to be thankful," Dr. Tusher said, " that 
my lady and her son were spared, while death carried off 
the poor domestics of the house;" and he rebuked Harry 
for asking in his simply way, for which we ought to be 
thankful; that the servants were killed or the gentlefolk 
were saved? Nor could young Esmond agree with the 
Doctor that the malady had not in the least impaired my 
lady's charms, for Harry thought that her ladyship's beauty 
was very much injured by the smallpox. When the marks 
of the disease cleared away, they did not, it is true, leave 

48 



HENRY ESMOND 

scars on her face, except one on her forehead, but the deli- 
cacy of her complexion was gone, her eyes had lost their 
brilliancy.^ and her face looked older. When Tusher vowed 
and protested that this was not so, in the presence of my 
lady, the lad broke out impulsively, and said, " It is true; 
my mistress is not near so handsome as she was!" On 
which poor Lady Castlewood gave a rueful smile, and a look 
into a little glass she had, which showed her, I suppose, 
that what the stupid boy said was only too true, for she 
turned away from the glass, and her eyes filled with tears. 

The sight of these on the face of the lady whom he loved 
best filled Esmond's heart with a sort of rage of pity, and 
the young blunderer sank down on his knees and besought 
her to pardon him, saying that he was a fool and an idiot, that 
he was a brute to make such a speech, he, who caused her 
malady; and Dr. Tusher told him that he was a bear 
indeed, and a bear he would remain, after which speech 
poor young Esmond was so dumb-stricken that he did not 
even growl. 

" He is my bear, and I will not have him baited. Doctor," 
my lady said, patting her hand kindly on the boy's head, as 
he. was still kneeling at her feet. " How your hair has 
come ofT! — and mine, too," she added, with another sigh. 

" Madam, you have the dearest, and kindest, and sweet- 
est face in the world, I think," the lad said. 

"Will my lord think so when he comes back?" the 
lady asked with a sigh, and another look at her glass. Then 
turning to her young son she said, " Come, Frank, come, 
my child. You are well, praised be Heaven. Your locks 
are not thinned by this dreadful smallpox; nor your poor 
face scarred — is it, my angel?" 

Frank began to shout and whimper at the idea of such 
a misfortune, for from the very earliest time the young 

49 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

lord had been taught by his mother to admire his own 
beauty; and esteemed it very highly. 

At length, when the danger was quite over, it was an- 
nounced that my lord and Beatrix would return. Esmond 
well remembered the day. My lady was in a flurry of fear. 
Before my lord came she went into her room, and returned 
from it with reddened cheeks. Her fate was about to be 
decided. Would my lord — who cared so much for physical 
perfection — find hers gone, too? A minute would say. 
She saw him come riding over the bridge, clad in scarlet, 
and mounted on his grey hackney, his little daughter beside 
him, in a bright riding dress of blue, on a shining chestnut 
horse. My lady put her handkerchief to her eyes, and 
withdrew it, laughing hysterically. She ran to her room 
again, and came back with pale cheeks and red eyes, her 
son beside her, just as my lord entered, accompanied by 
young Esmond, who had gone out to meet his protector, and 
to hold his stirrup as he descended from horseback. 

"What, Harry boy!" he exclaimed good-naturedly, "you 
look as gaunt as a greyhound. The smallpox hasn't im- 
proved your beauty, and you never had too much of it 
—ho!" 

And he laughed and sprang to the ground, looking hand- 
some and red, with a jolly face and brown hair. Esmond, 
kneeling again, as soon as his patron had descended, per- 
formed his homage, and then went to help the little Beatrix 
from her horse. 

" Fie! how yellow you look," she said; " and there are 
one, two red holes in your face; " which indeed was very 
true, Harry Esmond's harsh countenance bearing as long 
as he lived the marks of the disease. 

My lord laughed again, in high good-humour, exclaim- 
ing with one of his usual oaths, " The little minx sees every- 

50 



HENRY ESMOND 

thing. She saw the dowager's paint t'other day, and asked 
her why she wore that red stuff — didn't you, Trix? And 
the Tower; and St. James's; and the play; and the Prince 
George; and the Princess Ann — didn't you, Trix? " 

"They are both very fat, and smelt of brandy," the 
child said. 

Papa roared with laughing. 

"Brandy!" he said. "And how do you know, Miss 
Pert?" 

" Because your lordship smells of it after supper, when 
I kiss you before I go to bed," said the young lady, who 
indeed was as pert as her father said, and looked as beauti- 
ful a little gipsy as eyes ever gazed on. 

"And now for my lady," said my lord, going up the 
stairs, and passing alone under the tapestry curtain that 
hung before the drawing-room door. Esmond always re- 
membered that noble figure, handsomely arrayed in scarlet. 
Within the last few months he himself had grown from 
a boy to be a man, and with his figure his thoughts had shot 
up, and grown manly. 

After her lord's return, Harry Esmond watched my lady's 
countenance with solicitous affection, and noting its sad, 
depressed look realised that there was a marked change in 
her. In her eagerness to please her husband she practised 
a hundred arts which had formerly pleased him, charmed 
him, but in vain. Her songs did not amuse him, and she 
hushed them and the children when in his presence. Her 
silence annoyed him as much as her speech; and it seemed as 
if nothing she could do or say could please him. But for 
Harry Esmond his benefactress' sweet face had lost none 
of its charms. It had always the kindest of looks and smiles 
for him; not so gay and artless perhaps as those which 
Lady Castlewood had formerly worn, but out of her 

51 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

griefs and cares, as will happen when trials fall upon a 
kindly heart, grew up a number of thoughts and virtues 
which had never come into existence, had not her sorrow 
given birth to them. 

When Lady Castlewood found that she had lost the fresh- 
ness of her husband's admiration, she turned all her thoughts 
to the welfare of her children, learning that she might 
teach them, and improving her many natural gifts and ac- 
complishments that she might impart them. She made 
herself a good scholar of French, Italian, and Latin. Young 
Esmond was house-tutor under her or over her, as it might 
happen, no more having been said of his leaving Castle- 
wood since the night before he came down with the small- 
pox. During my lord's many absences these school days 
would go on uninterruptedly: the mother and daughter 
learning with surprising quickness, the latter by fits and 
starts only, as suited her wayward humour. As for the 
little lord, it must be owned that he took after his father 
in the matter of learning, liked marbles and play and sport 
best, and enjoyed marshalling the village boys, of whom he 
had a little court; already flogging them, and domineering 
over them with a fine imperious spirit that made his father 
laugh when he beheld it, and his mother fondly warn him. 
Dr. Tusher said he was a young nobleman of gallant 
spirit; and Harry Esmond, who was eight years his little 
lordship's senior, had hard work sometimes to keep his own 
temper, and hold his authority over his rebellious little 
chief. 

Indeed, "Mr. Tutor," as my lady called Esmond, had 
now business enough on his hands in Castlewood house. 
He had his pupils, besides writing my lord's letters, and 
arranging his accounts for him, when these could be got 
from his indolent patron. 

52 



HENRY ESMOND 

Of the pupils the two young people were but lazy schol- 
ars, and as my lady would admit no discipline such as was 
then in use, my lord's son only learned what he liked, which 
was but little, and never to his life's end could be got to 
construe more than six lines of Virgil. Mistress Beatrix 
chattered French prettily, from a very early age; and sang 
sweetly, but this was from her mother's teaching, not Harry 
Esmond's^ who could scarce distinguish one air from an- 
other, although he had no greater delight in life than to 
hear the ladies sing. He never forgot them as they used to 
sit together of the summer evenings, the two golden heads 
over the page, the child's little hand, and the mother's, beat- 
ing the time with their voices rising and falling in unison. 

But these happy days were to end soon, and it was by 
Lady Castlewood's own decree that they were brought to 
A conclusion. It happened about Christmas time, Harry 
Esmond being now past sixteen years of age, that his old 
comrade, Tom Tusher, returned from school in London, 
a fair, well-grown and sturdy lad, who was about to enter 
college, with good marks from his school, and a prospect of 
after-promotion in the church. Tom Tusher's talk was of 
nothing but Cambridge now; and the boys examined each 
other eagerly about their progress in books. Tom had 
learned some Greek and Hebrew, besides Latin, in which 
he was pretty well skilled, and also had given himself to 
mathematical study under his father's guidance. Harry 
Esmond could not write Latin as well as Tom, though he 
could talk it better, having been taught by his dear friend 
the Jesuit Father, for whose memory the lad ever retained 
the warmest affection, reading his books, and keeping his 
swords clean. Often of a night sitting in the Chaplain's 
room, over his books, his verses, his rubbish, with which the 
lad occupied himself, he would look up at the window, 

53 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

wishing it might open and let in the good father. He had 
come and passed away like a dream; but for the swords and 
books Harry might almost think he was an imagination of 
his mind — and for two letters which had come from him, 
one from abroad, full of advice and affection, another soon 
after Harry had been confirmed by the Bishop of Hexton, 
in which Father Holt deplored his falling away from the 
true faith. But it would have taken greater persuasion 
than his to induce the boy to worship other than with his 
beloved mistress, and under her kind eyes he read many 
volumes of the works of the famous British divines of the 
last age. His mistress never tired of pursuing their texts 
with fond comments, or to urge those points which her 
fancy dwelt on most, or her reason deemed most important. 

In later life, at the University, Esmond pursued the sub- 
ject in a very different manner, as was suitable for one who» 
was to become a clergyman. But his heart was never much 
inclined towards this calling. He made up his mind to 
wear the cassock and bands as another man does to wear a 
breastplate and jack-boots, or to mount a merchant's desk 
for a livelihood — from obedience and necessity, rather than 
from choice. 

When Thomas Tusher was gone, a feeling of no small 
depression and disquiet fell upon young Esmond, of which, 
though he did not complain, his kind mistress must have 
guessed the cause : for, soon after, she showed not only that 
she understood the reason of Harry's melancholy, but could 
provide a remedy for it. All the notice, however, which 
she seemed to take of his melancholy, was by a gaiety un- 
usual to her, attempting to dispel his gloom. She made 
his scholars more cheerful than ever they had been before, 
and more obedient, too, learning and reading much more 
than they had been accustomed to do. " For who knows," 

54 



HENRY ESMOND 

said the lady, " what may happen, and whether we may be 
able to keep such a learned tutor long?" 

Frank Esmond said he for his part did not want to learn 
any more, and cousin Harry might shut up his book when- 
ever he liked, if he would come out a-fishing; and little 
Beatrix declared she would send for Tom Tusher, and he 
would be glad enough to come to Castlewood, if Harry 
chose to go away. 

At last came a messenger from Winchester one day, 
bearer of a letter with a great black seal, from the Dean 
there, to say that his sister was dead, and had left her for- 
tune among her six nieces, of which Lady Castlewood was 
one. 

When my lord heard of the news, he made no pretence 
of grieving. 

"The money will come very handy to furnish the music- 
room and the cellar, which is getting low, and buy your 
ladyship a coat, and a couple of new horses. And, Beatrix, 
you shall have a spinnet; and, Frank, you shall have a little 
horse from Hexton Fair; and, Harry, you shall have five 
pounds to buy some books," said my lord, who was generous 
with his own, and indeed with other folk's money. 

"I wish your aunt would die once a year, Rachel; we 
could spend your money, and all your sisters', too." 

" I have but one aunt — and — and I have another use for 
the money, my lord," said my lady. . 

"Another use, my dear; and what do you know about 
money? " said my lord. " And what the devil is there 
that I don't give you which you want? " 

" I intend this money for Harry Esmond to go to col- 
lege," says my lady. " You mustn't stay longer in this dull 
place, but make a name for yourself, and for us, too, 
Harry." 

55 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

'' Is Harry going away? You don't mean to say you 
will go away?" cried out Frank and Beatrix in one breath. 

"But he will come back; and this will always be his 
home," cried my lady, with blue eyes looking a celestial 
kindness. " And his scholars will always love him, won't 
they?" 

"Rachel, you're a good woman!" exclaimed my lord, 
with an oath, seizing my lady's hand. "I wish you joy!" 
he continued, giving Harry Esmond a hearty slap on the 
shoulder. " I won't balk your luck. Go to Cambridge, boy, 
and when Tusher dies you shall have the living here, if 
you are not better provided by that time. We'll furnish the 
dining-room and buy the horses another year. I'll give 
thee a nag out of the stables; take any one except my hack 
and the bay gelding and the coach horses; and God speed 
thee, my boy ! " 

"Have the sorrel, Harry; 'tis a good one. Father says 
'tis the best in the stable," said little Frank, clapping his 
hands and jumping up. " Let's come and see him in the 
stable." And Harry Esmond in his delight and eagerness 
was for leaving the room that instant to arrange about his 
journey. 

The Lady Castlewood looked after him with sad pene- 
trating glances. 

" He wishes to be gone already, my lord," said she to her 
husband. 

The young man hung back abashed. " Indeed, I would 
stay forever if your ladyship bade me," he said. 

"And thou wouldst be a fool for thy pains," said my 
lord. "Tut, tut, man. Go and see the world. Sow thy 
wild oats; and take the best luck that fate sends thee. I 
wish I were a boy again, that I might go to college and 
taste the Thumpington ale." 



HENRY ESMOND 

" Indeed, you are best away," said my lady, laughing, 
as she put her hand on the boy's head for a moment. "You 
shall stay in no such dull place. You shall go to college 
and distinguish yourself as becomes your name. That is 
how you shall please me best; and — and if my children 
want you, or I want you, you shall come to us ; and I know 
we may count on you." 

" May Heaven forsake me if you may not! " Harry said, 
getting up from his knee. 

"And my knight longs for a dragon this instant that 
he may fight," said my lady, laughing; which speech made 
Harry Esmond start, and turn red; for indeed the very 
thought was in his mind, that he would like that some 
chance should immediately happen whereby he might show 
his devotion. And it pleased him to think that his lady 
had called him " her knight," and often and often he re- 
called this to his mind, and prayed that he might be her 
true knight, too. 

My lady's bed-chamber window looked out over the 
country, and you could see from it the purple hills beyond 
Castlewood village, the green common betwixt that and the 
H^ll, and the old bridge which crossed over the river. 
When Hary Esmond went away to Cambridge, little Frank 
ran alongside his horse as far as the bridge, and there 
Harry stopped for a moment, and looked back at the house 
where the best part of his life had been passed. 

It lay before him with its grey familiar towers, a pin- 
nacle or two shining in the sun, the buttresses and terrace 
walls casting great blue shades on the grass. And Harry 
remembered all his life after how he saw his mistress at 
the window looking out on him in a white robe, the little 
Beatrix's chestnut curls resting at her mother's side. Both 
waved a farewell to him, and little Frank sobbed to leave 

57 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

him. Yes, he would be his lady's true knight, he vowed in 
his heart; he waved her an adieu with his hat. The village 
people had good-bye to say to him, too. All knew that 
Master Harry was going to college, and most of them had 
a kind word and a look of farewell. I do not stop to say 
what adventures he began to imagine, or what career to 
devise for himself before he had ridden three miles from 
home. He had not read the Arabian tales as yet; but be 
sure that there are other folks who build castles in the air, 
and have fine hopes, and kick them down, too, besides 
honest Alnaschar, 

This change in his life was a very fine thing indeed for 
Harry, who rode away in company of my lord, who said 
he should like to revisit the old haunts of his youth, and so 
accompanied Harry to Cambridge. Their road lay through 
London, where my Lord Viscount would have Harry stay 
a few days to see the pleasures of the town before he en- 
tered upon his university studies, and whilst here Harry's 
patron conducted the young man to my lady dowager's 
house near London. Lady Isabella received them cor- 
dially, and asked Harry what his profession was to be. 
Upon hearing that the lad was to take orders, and to have 
the living of Castlewood when old Dr. Tusher vacated 
it, she seemed glad that the youth should be so provided 
for. 

She bade Harry Esmond pay her a visit whenever he 
passed through London, and carried her graciousness so 
far as to send a purse with twenty guineas for him to the 
tavern where he and his lord were staying, and with 
this welcome gift sent also a little doll for Beatrix, who, 
however, was growing beyond the age of dolls by this time, 
and was almost as tall as Lady Isabella. 

After seeing the town, and going to the plays, my Lord 

58 



HENRY ESMOND 

Castlewood and Esmond rode together to Cambridge, 
spending two pleasant days upon the journey. Those rapid 
new coaches that performed the journey in a single day 
were not yet established, but the road was pleasant and 
short enough to Harry Esmond, and he always gratefully 
remembered that happy holiday which his kind patron 
gave him. 

Henry Esmond was entered at Trinity College, Cam- 
bridge, to which famous college my lord had also in his 
youth belonged. My Lord Viscount was received with 
great politeness by the head master, as well as by Mr. 
Bridge, who was appointed to be Harry's tutor. Tom 
Tusher, who was by this time a junior Soph, came to take 
Harry under his protection; and comfortable rooms be- 
ing provided for him, Harry's patron took leave of him 
with many kind words and blessings, and an admonition 
to have to behave better at the University than my lord him- 
self had ever done. 

Thus began Harry Esmond's college career, which was 
in no wise different from that of a hundred other young 
gentlemen of that day. Meanwhile, while he was becoming 
used to the manners and customs of his new life and en- 
joying it thoroughly in his quiet way; at Castlewood Hall 
life was not so cheerful as it had been when he was there 
to note his mistress' sorrow or joy and act according to 
her need. 

Coming home to his dear Castlewood in the third year of 
his academic course, Harry was overjoyed to see again the 
kind blue eyes of his mistress, when she and the children 
came to greet him. He found Frank shooting up to be 
like his gallant father in looks and in tastes. He had his 
hawks, and his spaniel dog, his little horse, and his beagles; 
had learned to ride and to shoot flying, and had a small 

59 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

court made up of the sons of the huntsmen and woodsmen, 
over whom he ruled as imperiously as became the heir- 
apparent. 

As for Beatrix, Esmond found her grown to be taller 
than her mother, a slim and lovely young girl, with cheeks 
mantling with health and roses ; with eyes like stars shining 
out of azure, with waving bronze hair clustered about the 
fairest young forehead ever seen; and a mien and shape 
haughty and beautiful, such as that of the famous antique 
statue of the huntress Diana. 

This bright creature was the darling and torment of 
father and mother. She intrigued with each secretly, and 
bestowed her fondness and withdrew it, plied them with 
tears, smiles, kisses, caresses; when the mother was angry, 
flew to the father; when both were displeased, transferred 
her caresses to the domestics, or watched until she could 
win back her parents' good graces, either by surprising 
them into laughter and good-humour, or appeasing them 
by submissive and an artful humility. She had been a 
coquette from her earliest days; had long learned the value 
of her bright eyes, and tried experiments in coquetry upon 
rustics and country 'squires until she should have oppor- 
tunity to conquer a larger world in later years. 

When, then, Harry Esmond came home to Castlewood 
for his last vacation he found his old pupil shot up into 
this capricious beauty; her brother, a handsome, high- 
spirited, brave lad, generous and frank and kind to every- 
body, save perhaps Beatrix, with whom he was perpetually 
at war, and not from his, but her, fault; adoring his mother, 
whose joy he was. And Lady Castlewood was no whit 
less gracious and attractive to Harry than in the old 
days when as a lad he had first kissed her fair, protecting 
hand. 

60 



HENRY ESMOND 

Such was the group who welcomed Henry Esmond on 
his return from college. 

Not anticipating the future, not looking ahead, let us 
leave beautiful Beatrix, imperious young Frank, sweet Lady 
Castlewood, giving a glad welcome to their old friend and 
tutor. Truly we carry away a pretty picture as we finish 
this chapter of Esmond's youth. 



6i 



THE VIRGINIANS 



63 
























Warrington and George W' ashington. 



THE VIRGINIANS 



HENRY ESMOND, ESQ., an officer who had 
served with the rank of Colonel during the 
wars of Qeen Anne's reign, found himself at 
its close involved in certain complications, both 
political and private. For this reason Mr. 
Esmond thought best to establish himself in Virginia, where 
he took possession of a large estate conferred by King 
Charles I. upon his ancestor. Mr. Esmond previously to 
this had married Rachel, widow of the late Francis Castle- 
wood, Baronet, by whom he had one daughter, afterwards 
Madame Warrington, whose twin sons, George and Henry 
Warrington, were known as the Virginians. 

Mr. Esmond called his American house Castlewood, 
from the family estate in England. The whole customs 
of Virginia, indeed, were fondly modelled after the English 
customs. The Virginians boasted that King Charles II. 
had been king in Virginia before he had been king in 
England. The resident gentry were connected with good 
English families and lived on their great lands after a 
fashion almost patriarchal. For its rough cultivation, each 
estate had a multitude of hands, who were subject to the 
command of the master. The land yielded their food, live 
stock and game. The great rivers swarmed with fish for the 
taking. Their ships took the tobacco off their private 

6s 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

wharves on the banks of the Potomac or the James River, 
and carried it to London or Bristol, bringing back English 
goods and articles of home manufacture in return for the 
only produce which the Virginian gentry chose to culti- 
vate. Their hospitality was boundless. No stranger was 
ever sent away from their gates. The question of slavery 
was not born at the time of which we write. To be the 
proprietor of black servants shocked the feelings of no 
Virginian gentleman; nor, in truth, was the despotism 
exercised over the negro race generally a savage one. The 
food was plenty; the poor black people lazy and not un- 
happy. You might have preached negro-emancipation 
to Madame Esmond of Castlewood as you might have told 
her to let the horses run loose out of the stables; she had 
no doubt but that the whip and the corn-bag were good 
for both. 

Having lost his wife, his daughter took the management 
of the Colonel and his estate, and managed both with the 
spirit and determination which governed her management 
of every person and thing which came within her juris- 
diction. 

After fifteen years' residence upon his great Virginian 
estate the Colonel agreed in his daughter's desire to replace 
the wooden house in which they lived, with a nobler man- 
sion which would be more fitting for his heirs to inherit. 
His daughter had a very high opinion indeed of her an- 
cestry, and her father, growing exquisitely calm and good- 
natured in his serene declining years, humoured his child's 
peculiarities and interests in an easy bantering way. Truth 
to tell, there were few families in England with nobler 
connections than the Esmonds. The Virginians, Madame 
Rachel Warrington's sons, inherited the finest blood and 
traditions, and the rightful king of England had not two 

66 



THE VIRGINIANS 

more faithful little subjects than the young twins of Cas- 
tlewood. 

At Colonel Esmond's death, Madame Esmond, as she was 
thereafter called, proclaimed her eldest son, George, heir 
of the estate; and Harry, George's younger brother by half 
an hour, was instructed to respect his senior. All the 
household was also instructed to pay him honour, and in 
the whole family of servants there was only one rebel, 
Harry's foster-mother, a faithful negro woman who never 
could be made to understand why her child should not be 
first, who was handsomer and stronger and cleverer than 
his brother, as she vowed; though in truth, there was 
not much difference in the beauty, strength, or stature 
of the twins. In disposition, they were in many points ex- 
ceedingly unlike; but in feature they resembled each other 
so closely that, but for the colour of their hair, it had been 
difficult to distinguish them. In their beds, and when their 
heads were covered with those vast ribboned nightcaps 
which our great and little ancestors wore, it was scarcely 
possible for any but a nurse or a mother to tell* the one 
from the other child. 

Howbeit, alike in form, we have said that they differed 
in temper. The elder was peaceful, studious and silent; 
the younger was warlike and noisy. He was quick at learn- 
ing when he began, but very slow at beginning. No threats 
of the ferule would provoke Harry to learn in an idle fit, 
or would prevent George from helping his brother in his 
lesson. Harry was of a strong military turn, drilled the 
little negroes on the estate, and caned them like a corporal, 
having many good boxing-matches with them, and never 
bearing malice if he was worsted; whereas George was 
sparing of blows, and gentle with all about him. As the 
custom in all families was, each of the boys had a special 

67 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

little servant assigned him; and it was a known fact that 
George, finding his little wretch of a blackamoor asleep on 
his master's bed, sat down beside it and brushed the flies 
off the child with a feather-fan, to the horror of old Gumbo, 
the child's father, who found his young master so engaged, 
and to the indignation of Madame Esmond, who ordered 
the young negro off to the proper officer for a whipping. 
In vain George implored and entreated, burst into passion- 
ate tears and besought a remission of the sentence. His 
mother was inflexible regarding the young rebel's punish- 
ment, and the little negro went off beseeching his young 
master not to cry. 

A fierce quarrel between mother and son ensued out 
of this event. Her son would not be pacified. He said the 
punishment was a shame — a shame; that he was the master 
of the boy, and no one — no, not his mother — had a right to 
touch him; that she might order him to be corrected, and 
that he would suffer the punishment, as he and Harry often 
had, but no one should lay a hand on his boy. Trembling 
with passionate rebellion against what he conceived the in- 
justice of the procedure, he vowed that on the day he came 
of age he would set young Gumbo free; went to visit the 
child in the slaves' quarters, and gave him one of his own 
toys. 

The black martyr was an impudent, lazy, saucy little 
personage, who would be none the worse for a whipping, 
as the Colonel, who was then living, no doubt thought; 
for he acquiesced in the child's punishment when Ma- 
dame Esmond insisted upon it, and only laughed in his 
good-natured way when his indignant grandson called 
out: 

" You let mamma rule you in everything, grandpapa." 

" Why so I do," says grandpapa. " Rachel, my love, 

68 



THE VIRGINIANS 

the way in which I am petticoat-ridden is so evident that 
even this baby has found it out." 

" Then why don't you stand up like a man? " says little 
Harry, who always was ready to abet his brother. 

Grandpapa looked queerly. 

" Because I like sitting down best, my dear," he said. 
" I am an old gentleman, and standing fatigues me." 

On account of a certain apish drollery and humour 
which exhibited itself in the lad, and a liking for some 
of the old man's pursuits, the first of the twins was the 
grandfather's favourite and companion, and would laugh 
and talk out all his infantine heart to the old gentleman, 
to whom the younger had seldom a word to say. George 
was a demure, studious boy, and his senses seemed to 
brighten up in the library, where his brother was so gloomy. 
He knew the books before he could well-nigh carry them, 
and read in them long before he could understand them. 
Harry, on the other hand, was all alive in the stables or in 
the wood, eager for all parties of hunting and fishing, and 
promised to be a good sportsman from a very early age. 
The grandfather's ship was sailing for Europe once when 
the boys were children, and they were asked what present 
Captain Franks would bring them back? George was 
divided between books and a fiddle; Harry instantly de- 
clared for a little gun; and Madame Warrington (as she 
then was called) was hurt that her elder boy should have 
low tastes, and applauded the younger's choice as more 
worthy of his name and lineage. 

" Books, papa, I can fancy to be a good choice," she 
replied to her father, who tried to convince her that George 
had a right to his opinion, " though I am sure you must 
have pretty nigh all the books in the world already. But 
I never can desire — I may be wrong — but I never can 

69 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

desire, that my son, and the grandson of the Marquis of 
Esmond, should be a fiddler." 

" Should be a fiddlestick, my dear," the old Colonel 
answered. " Remember that Heaven's ways are not ours, 
and that each creature born has a little kingdom of thought 
of his own, which it is a sin in us to invade. Suppose 
George loves music? You can no more stop him than you 
can order a rose not to smell sweet, or a bird not to sing." 

"A bird! A bird sings from nature; George did not 
come into the world with a fiddle in his hand," says Mrs. 
Warrington, with a toss of her head. " I am sure I hated 
the harpsichord when a chit at Kensington school, and only 
learned it to please my mamma. Say what you will, I 
cannot believe that this fiddling is work for persons of 
fashion " 

" And King David who played the harp, my dear? " 

" I wish my papa would read him more, and not speak 
about him in that way," said Mrs. Warrington. 

" Nay, my dear, it was but by way of illustration," the 
father replied gently. It was Colonel's Esmond's nature 
always to be led by a woman, and he spoiled his daughter; 
laughing at her caprices, but humouring them; making a 
joke of her prejudices, but letting them have their way; 
indulging, and perhaps increasing, her natural imperious- 
ness of character, which asserted itself to an unusual degree 
after her father's death. 

The Colonel's funeral was the most sumptuous one 
ever seen in the country. The little lads of Castlewood, 
almost smothered in black trains and hat bands, headed the 
procession, followed by Madame Esmond Warrington (as 
she called herself after her father's death), by my Lord 
Fairfax, by his Excellency the Governor of Virginia, by 
the Randolphs, the Careys, the Harrisons, the Washingtons, 

70 



THE VIRGINIANS 

and many others, for the whole county esteemed the de- 
parted gentleman whose goodness, whose high talents, 
whose unobtrusive benevolence had earned for him the just 
respect of his neighbours. 

The management of the house of Castlewood had been 
in the hands of his daughter long before the Colonel slept 
the sleep of the just, for the truth is little Madame Esmond 
never came near man or woman but she tried to domineer 
over them. If people obeyed, she was their very good 
friend; if they resisted, she fought and fought until she or 
they gave in, and without her father's influence to restrain 
her she was now more despotic than ever. She exercised 
a rigid supervision over the estate; dismissed Colonel Es- 
mond's English factor and employed a new one; built, im- 
proved, planted, grew tobacco, appointed a new overseer, 
and imported a new tutor for her boys. The little queen 
domineered over her little dominion, and over the princes 
her sons as well, thereby falling out frequently with her 
neighbours, with her relatives, and with her sons also. 

A very early difference which occurred between the 
queen and crown prince arose out of the dismissal of the 
lad's tutor, Mr. Dempster, who had also been the late 
Colonel's secretary. Upon his retirement George vowed 
he never would forsake his old tutor, and kept his promise. 
Another cause of dispute between George and his mother 
presently ensued. 

By the death of an aunt, the heirs of Mr. George War- 
rington became entitled to a sum of six thousand pounds, 
of which their mother was one of the trustees. She never 
could be made to understand that she was not the propri- 
etor, but merely the trustee of this money; and was 
furious with the London lawyer who refused to send it 
over at her order. " Is not all I have my sons'? " she cried, 

71 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

"and would I not cut myself into little pieces to serve 
them? With the six thousand pounds I would have bought 
Mr. Boulter's estate and negroes, which would have given 
us a good thousand pounds a year, and made a handsome 
provision for my Harry." Her young friend and neigh- 
bour, Mr. Washington of Mount Vernon, could not con- 
vince her that the London agent was right, and must not 
give up his trust except to those for whom he held it. 

George Esmond, when this little matter was referred 
to him, and his mother vehemently insisted that he should 
declare himself, was of the opinion of Mr. Washington and 
Mr. Draper, the London lawyer. The boy said he could 
not help himself. He did not want the money; he would • 
be very glad to give the money to his mother if he had the 
power. But Madame Esmond would not hear of these 
reasons. Here was a chance of making Harry's fortune — 
dear Harry, who was left with such a slender younger 
brother's pittance — and the wretches in London would not 
help him; his own brother, who inherited all his papa's 
estate, would not help him. To think of a child of hers 
being so mean at fourteen years of age! 

Into this state of mind the incident plunged Madame 
Warrington, and no amount of reasoning could bring her 
out of it. On account of the occurrence she at once set to 
work saving for her younger son, for whom she was eager 
to make a fortune. The fine buildings were stopped as well 
as the fine fittings which had been ordered for the interior 
of the new home. No more books were bought; the agent 
had orders to discontinue sending wine. Madame Esmond 
deeply regretted the expense of a fine carriage which she 
had from England, and only rode in it to church, crying 
out to the sons sitting opposite to her, "Harry, Harry! I 
wish I had put by the money for thee, my poor portionless 

72 



THE VIRGINIANS 

child; three hundred and eighty guineas of ready money 
to Messieurs Hatchett!" 

" You will give me plenty while you live, and George 
will give me plenty when you die," says Harry gaily. 

" Not until he changes in spirit, my dear," says the 
lady grimly, glancing at her elder boy. " Not unless 
Heaven softens his heart and teaches him charity, for 
which I pray day and night; as Mountain knows; do you 
not, Mountain? " 

Mrs. Mountain, Ensign Mountain's widow, who had 
been a friend of Rachel Esmond in her school days, and 
since her widowhood had been Madame Esmond's com- 
panion in Castlewood house, serving to enliven many dull 
hours for that lady and enjoying thoroughly the home which 
Castlewood afforded her and her child. Mrs. Mountain, 
I say, who was occupying the fourth seat in the family 
coach, said, " Humph! humph! I know you are always dis- 
turbing yourself about this legacy, and I don't see that there 
is any need." 

"Oh, no! no need!" cries the widow, rustling in her 
silks; "of course I have no need to be disturbed, because 
my eldest born is a disobedient son and an unkind brother; 
because he has an estate, and my poor Harry, bless him, 
but a mess of pottage." 

George looked despairingly at his mother until he 
could see her no more for eyes welled up with tears. " I 
wish you would bless me, too, O my mother!" he said, and 
burst into a passionate fit of weeping. Harry's arms were 
in a moment round his brother's neck, and he kissed George 
a score of times. 

" Never mind, George. I know whether you are a 
good brother or not. Don't mind what she says. She don't 
mean it." 

73 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

" T do mean it, child," cries the mother. " Would to 
Heaven " 

'^ Hold your tongue, I say!" roars out Harry. " It's a 
shame to speak so to him, ma'am." 

" And so it is, Harry," says Mrs. Mountain, shaking 
his hand. " You never said a truer word in your life." 

" Mrs. Mountain, do you dare to set my children 
against me?" cries the widow. " From this very day, ma- 
dam " 

" Turn me and my child into the street? Do," says 
Mrs. Mountain. " That will be a fine revenge because the 
English lawyer won't give you the boy's money. Find 
another companion who will tell you black is white, and 
flatter you; it is not my way, madam. When shall I go? 
I shan't be long a-packing. I did not bring much into 
Castlewood house, and I shall not take much out." 

"Hush! the bells are ringing for church. Mountain. 
Let us try, if you please, and compose ourselves," said the 
widow, and she looked with eyes of extreme aflfection, cer- 
tainly at one, perhaps at both, of her children. George 
kept his head down, and Harry, who was near, got quite 
close to him during the sermon, and sat with his arm round 
his brother's neck. 

From these incidents it may be clearly seen that Ma- 
dame Esmond besides being a brisk little woman at business 
and ruling like a little queen in Castlewood was also a 
victim of many freaks and oddities, among them one of 
the most prominent being a great desire for flattery. There 
was no amount of compliment which she could not gra- 
ciously receive and take as her due, and it was her greatest 
delight to receive attention from suitors of every degree. 
Her elder boy saw this peculiarity of his mother's dispo- 
sition and chafed privately under it. From a very early 

74 



THE VIRGINIANS 

day he revolted when compliments were paid to the little 
lady, and strove to expose them with his youthful satire; 
so that his mother would say gravely, " the Esmonds were 
always of a jealous disposition, and my poor boy takes after 
my father and mother in this." 

One winter after their first tutor had been dismissed 
Madame Esmond took them to Williamsburg for such edu- 
cation as the schools and colleges there afforded, and there 
they listened to the preaching and became acquainted with 
the famous Mr. Whitfield, who, at Madame Esmond's re- 
quest, procured a tutor for the boys, by name Mr. Ward. 
For weeks Madame Esmond was never tired of hearing 
Mr. Ward's utterances of a religious character, and ac- 
cording to her wont she insisted that her neighbours should 
come and listen to him and ordered them to be converted to 
the faith which he represented. Her young favourite, Mr. 
George Washington, she was especially anxious to influ- 
ence; and again and again pressed him to come and stay 
at Castlewood and benefit by the spiritual advantages there 
to be obtained. But that young* gentleman found he had 
particular business which called him home or away from 
home, and always ordered his horse of evenings when the 
time was coming for Mr. Ward's exercises. And — what 
boys are just towards their pedagogue? — the twins grew 
speedily tired and even rebellious under their new teacher. 

They found him a bad scholar, a dull fellow, and ill- 
bred to boot. George knew much more Latin and Greek 
than his master; Harry, who could take much greater liber- 
ties than were allowed to his elder brother, mimicked 
Ward's manner of eating and talking, so that Mrs. Moun- 
tain and even Madame Esmond were forced to laugh, and 
little Fanny Mountain would crow with delight. Madame 
Esmond would have found the fellow out for a vulgar 

75 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

quack but for her son's opposition, which she, on her part, 
opposed with her own indomitable will. 

George now began to give way to a sarcastic method, 
took up Ward's pompous remarks and made jokes of them 
so that that young divine chafed and almost choked over 
his great meals. He made Madame Esmond angry, and 
doubly so when he sent off Harry into fits of laughter. Her 
authority was defied, her officer scorned and insulted, her 
youngest child perverted by the obstinate elder brother. 
She made a desperate and unhappy attempt to maintain her 
power. 

The boys were fourteen years of age, Harry being 
now taller and more advanced than his brother, who was 
delicate and as yet almost childlike in stature and appear- 
ance. The flogging method was quite a common mode of 
argument in these days. Our little boys had been horsed 
many a day by Mr. Dempster, their Scotch tutor, in their 
grandfather's time; and Harry, especially, had got to be 
quite accustomed to the practice, and made very light of it. 
But since Colonel Esmond's death, the cane had been laid 
aside, and the young gentlemen at Castlewood had been 
allowed to have their own way. Her own and her lieu- 
tenant's authority being now spurned by the youthful rebels, 
the unfortunate mother thought of restoring it by means of 
coercion. She took counsel of Mr. Ward. That athletic 
young pedagogue could easily find chapter and verse to 
warrant the course he wished to pursue, — in fact, there was 
no doubt about the wholesomeness of the practice in those 
days. He had begun by flattering the boys, finding a good 
berth and snug quarters at Castlewood, and hoping to re- 
main there. But they laughed at his flattery, they scorned 
his bad manners, they yawned soon at his sermons; the 
more their mother favoured him, the more they disliked 

76 



THE VIRGINIANS 

him; and so the tutor and the pupils cordially hated each 
other. 

Mrs. Mountain warned the lads to be prudent, and 
that some conspiracy was hatching against them; saying, 
"You must be on your guard, my poor boys. You must 
learn your lessons and not anger your tutor. Your mamma 
was talking about you to Mr. Washington the other day 
when I came into the room. I don't like that Major 
Washington, you know I don't. He is very handsome and 
tall, and he may be very good, but show me his wild oats 
I say — not a grain! Well, I happened to step in last Tues- 
day when he was here with your mamma, and I am sure 
they were talking about you, for he said, 'Discipline is 
discipline, and must be preserved. There can be but one 
command in a house, ma'am, and you must be the mistress 
of yours.' " 

" The very words he used to me," cries Harry. " He 
told me that he did not like to meddle with other folks' 
affairs, but that our mother was very angry, and he begged 
me to obey Mr. Ward, and to press George to do so." 

" Let him manage his own house, not mine," says 
George very haughtily. And the caution, far from benefit- 
ing him, only made the lad more scornful and rebellious. 

On the next day the storm broke. Words were passed 
between George and Mr. Ward during the morning study. 
The boy was quite disobedient and unjust. Even his faith- 
ful brother cried out, and owned that he was in the wrong. 
Mr. Ward bottled up his temper until the family met at 
dinner, when he requested Madame Esmond to stay, and 
laid the subject of discussion before her. 

He asked Master Harry to confirm what he had said; 
and poor Harry was obliged to admit all his statements. 

George, standing under his grandfather's portrait by 

77 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

the chimney, said haughtily that what Mr. Ward had said 
was perfectly correct. 

"To be a tutor to such a pupil is absurd," said Mr. 
Ward, making a long speech containing many scripture 
phrases, at each of which young George smiled scornfully; 
and at length Ward ended by asking her honour's leave to 
retire. 

" Not before you have punished this wicked and dis- 
obedient child," said Madame Esmond. 

"Punish!" exclaimed George. 

"Yes, sir, punish! If means of love and entreaty fail, 
other means must be found to bring you to obedience. I 
punish you now, rebellious boy, to guard you from greater 
punishment hereafter. The discipline of this family must 
be maintained. There can be but one command in a house, 
and I must be the mistress of mine. You will punish this 
refractory boy, Mr. Ward, as we have agreed, and if there 
is the least resistance on his part my overseer and servants 
will lend you aid." 

In the midst of his mother's speech George Esmond 
felt that he had been wronged. "There can be but one 
command in the house and you must be mistress. I know 
who said those words before you," George said slowly, and 
looking very white, " and — and I know, mother, that I have 
acted wrongly to Mr. Ward." 

"He owns it! He asks pardon! " cries Harry. "That's 
right, George! That's enough, isn't it? " 

"No, it is not enough! I know that he who spares 
the rod spoils the child, ungrateful boy! " says Madame Es- 
mond, with more references of the same nature, which 
George heard, looking very pale and desperate. 

Upon the mantelpiece stood a china cup, by which the 
widow set great store, as her father had always been accus- 

78 



THE VIRGINIANS 

tomed to drink from it. George suddenly took it, and a 
strange smile passed over his pale face. 

" Stay one minute. Don't go away yet," he cried to 
his mother, who was leaving the room. "You are very 
fond of this cup, mother?" and Harry looked at him won- 
dering. " If I broke it, it could never be mended, could 
it? My dear old grandpapa's cup! I have been wrong. 
Mr. Ward, I ask pardon. I will try and amend." 

The widow looked at her son indignantly. " I 
thought," she said, " I thought an Esmond had been more 

of a man than to be afraid, and " Here she gave a 

little scream, as Harry uttered an exclamation and dashed 
forward with his hands stretched out towards his brother. 

George, after looking at the cup, raised it, opened his 
hand and let it fall on the marble slab before him. Harry 
had tried in vain to catch it. 

" It is too late, Hal," George said. " You will never 
mend that again — never. Now, mother, I am ready, as it 
is your wish. Will you come and see whether I am afraid? 
Mr. Ward, I am your servant. Your servant? Your slave! 
And the next time I meet Mr. Washington, Madame, I will 
thank him for the advice which he gave you." 

" I say, do your duty, sir!" cried Mrs. Esmond, stamp- 
ing her little foot. And George, making a low bow to Mr. 
Ward, begged him to go first out of the room to the study. 

"Stop! For God's sake, mother, stop!" cried poor 
Hal. But passion was boiling in the little woman's heart, 
and she would not hear the boy's petition. "You only abet 
him, sir! " she cried. " If I had to do it myself, it should 
be done!" And Harry, with sadness and wrath in his 
countenance, left the room by the door through which Mr. 
Ward and his brother had just issued. 

The widow sank down in a great chair near it, and sat 

79 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

a while vacantly looking at the fragments of the broken 
cup. Then she inclined her head towards the door. For 
a while there was silence; then a loud outcry, which made 
the poor mother start. 

Mr. Ward came out bleeding from a great wound on 
his head, and behind him Harry, with flaring eyes, and 
brandishing a little ruler of his grandfather, which hung, 
with others of the Colonel's weapons, on the library wall. 

" I don't care. I did it," says Harry. " I couldn't see 
this fellow strike my brother; and as he lifted his hand, I 
flung the great ruler at him. I couldn't help it. I won't 
bear it; and if one lifts a hand to me or my brother, I'll 
have his life," shouts Harry, brandishing the hanger. 

The widow gave a great gasp and a sigh as she looked 
at the young champion and his victim. She must have 
suffered terribly during the few minutes of the boys' ab- 
sence; and the stripes which she imagined had been in- 
flicted on the elder had smitten her own heart. She longed 
to take both boys to it. She was not angry now. Very 
likely she was delighted with the thought of the younger's 
prowess and generosity. "You are a very naughty, dis- 
obedient child," she said in an exceedingly peaceable voice. 
" My poor Mr. Ward! What a rebel to strike you! Let 
me bathe your wound, my good Mr. Ward, and thank 
Heaven it was no worse. Mountain! Go fetch me some 
court-plaster. Here comes George. Put on your coat and 
waistcoat, child! You were going to take your punishment, 
sir, and that is sufficient. Ask pardon, Harry, of good Mr. 
Ward, for your wicked, rebellious spirit. I do, with all 
my heart, I am sure. And guard against your passionate 
nature, child, and pray to be forgiven. My son, oh my 
son!" 

Here with a burst of tears which she could no longer 

80 



THE VIRGINIANS 

control the little woman threw herself on the neck of her 
first born, whilst Harry went up very feebly to Mr. Ward, 
and said, " Indeed, I ask your pardon, sir. I couldn't help 
it; on my honour, I couldn't; nor bear to see my brother 
struck." 

The widow was scared, as after her embrace she looked 
up at George's pale face. In reply to her eager caresses, 
he coldly kissed her on the forehead, and separated from 
her. " You meant for the best, mother," he said, " and I 
was in the wrong. But the cup is broken; and all the king's 
horses and all the king's men cannot mend it. There — 
put the fair side outwards on the mantelpiece, and the 
wound will not show." 

Then George went up to Mr. Ward, who was still 
piteously bathing his eye and forehead in the water. " I 
ask pardon for Hal's violence, sir," he said in great state. 
" You see, though we are very young, we are gentlemen, and 
cannot brook an insult from strangers. I should have sub- 
mitted, as it was mamma's desire; but I am glad she no 
longer entertains it." 

"And pray, sir, who is to compensate me?" says Mr. 
Ward; "who is to repair the insult done to m^?" 

" We are very young," says George, with another of 
his old-fashioned bows. " We shall be fifteen soon. Any 
compensation that is usual amongst gentlemen " 

"This, sir, to a minister of the Word!" bawls out 
Ward, starting up, and who knew perfectly well the lad's 
skill in fence, having a score of times been foiled by the 
pair of them. 

" You are not a clergyman yet. We thought you might 
like to be considered as a gentleman. We did not know." 

"A gentleman! I am a Christian, sir!" says Ward, 
glaring furiously, and clenching his great fists. 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

" Well, well, if you won't fight, why don't you for- 
give? " says Harry. " If you won't forgive, why don't you 
fight? That's what I call the horns of a dilemma." And 
he laughed his jolly laugh. 

But this was nothing to the laugh a few days after- 
wards, when, the quarrel having been patched up along 
with poor Mr. Ward's eye, the unlucky tutor was holding 
forth according to his custom, but in vain. The widow 
wept no more at his harangues, was no longer excited by 
his eloquence. Nay, she pleaded headache, and would ab- 
sent herself of an evening, on which occasions the remainder 
of the little congregation were very cold indeed. One day 
Ward, still making desperate efforts to get back his de- 
spised authority, was preaching on the necessity of obey- 
ing our spiritual and temporal rulers. " For why, my dear 
friends," he asked, " why are the governors appointed, but 
that we should be governed? Why are tutors engaged, but 
that children should be taught?" (Here a look at the 

boys.) "Why are rulers " Here he paused, looking 

with a sad, puzzled face at the young gentlemen. He saw 
in their countenances the double meaning of the unlucky 
word he had uttered, and stammered and thumped the table 
with his fist. " Why, I say are rulers rulers " 

" Rulers'' says George, looking at Harry. 

" Rulers! " says Hal, putting his hand to his eye, where 
the poor tutor still bore marks of the late scuffle. " Rulers, 
o-ho!" It was too much. The boys burst out in an ex- 
plosion of laughter. Mrs. Mountain, who was full of fun, 
could not help joining in the chorus; and little Fanny 
Mountain, who had always behaved very demurely and 
silently at these ceremonies, crowed again, and clapped her 
little hands at the others laughing, not in the least knowing 
the reason why. 

82 



THE VIRGINIANS 

This could not be borne. Ward shut down the book 
before him; in a few angry but eloquent and manly words 
said he would speak no more in that place; and left Castle- 
wood not in the least regretted by Madame Esmond, who 
had doted on him three months before. 

After the departure of her unfortunate spiritual ad- 
viser and chaplain, Madame Esmond and her son seemed 
to be quite reconciled: but although George never spoke 
of the quarrel with his mother, it must have weighed upon 
the boy's mind very painfully, for he had a fever soon after 
the last recounted domestic occurrences, during which ill- 
ness his brain once or twice wandered, when he shrieked 
out, " Broken! Broken! It never, never, can be mended!" 
to the silent terror of his mother, who sat watching the 
poor child as he tossed wakeful upon his midnight bed. 
That night, and for some days afterwards, it seemed very 
likely that poor Harry would become heir of Castlewood; 
but by Mr. Dempster's skilful treatment the fever was 
got over, the intermittent attacks diminished in intensity, 
and George was restored almost to health again. A change 
of air, a voyage even to England, was recommended, but 
the widow had quarrelled with her children's relatives 
there, which made that trip impossible. A journey to the 
north and east was determined upon, and the two young 
gentleman, with Mr. Dempster reinstated as their tutor, 
and a couple of servants to attend them, took a voyage to 
New York, and thence up the beautiful Hudson River to 
Albany, where they were received by the first gentry of 
the province; and thence into the French provinces, where 
they were hospitably entertained by the French gentry. 
Harry camped with the Indians and took furs and shot 
bears. George, who never cared for field sports, and whose 
health was still delicate, was a special favourite with the 

83 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

French ladies, who were accustomed to see very few young 
English gentlemen speaking the French language so readily 
as our young gentleman. He danced the minuet elegantly. 
He learned the latest imported French catches and songs 
and played them beautifully on his violin; and to the envy 
of poor Harry, who was absent on a bear-hunt, he even had 
an affair of honour with a young ensign, whom he pinked 
on the shoulder, and with whom he afterwards swore an 
eternal friendship. 

When the lads returned home at the end of ten delight- 
ful months, their mother was surprised at their growth and 
improvement. George especially was so grown as to come 
up to his younger-born brother. The boys could hardly be 
distinguished one from another, especially when their hair 
was powdered ; but that ceremony being too cumbrous for 
country-life, each of the lads commonly wore his own hair, 
George his raven black, and Harry his light locks, tied with 
a ribbon. 

Now Mrs. Mountain had a great turn for match-mak- 
ing, and fancied that everybody had a design to marry 
everybody else. As a consequence of this weakness she was 
able to persuade George Warrington that Mr. Washington 
was laying siege to Madame Esmond's heart, which idea 
was anything but agreeable to George's jealous disposition. 

" I beg you to keep this quiet. Mountain," said George, 
with great dignity. " Or you and I shall quarrel, too. 
Never to any one must you mention such an absurd suspi- 
cion." 

"Absurd! Why absurd? Mr. Washington is con- 
stantly with the widow. She never tires of pointing out his 
virtues as an example to her sons. She consults him on 
every question respecting her estate and its management. 
There is a room at Castlewood regularly called Mr. Wash- 

84 



THE VIRGINIANS 

ington's room. He actually leaves his clothes here, and his 
portmanteau when he goes away. Ah, George, George! 
The day will come when he won't go away! " groaned Mrs. 
Mountain, and in consequence of the suspicions which her 
words aroused in him Mr. George adopted toward his 
mother's favourite a frigid courtesy, at which the honest 
gentleman chafed but did not care to remonstrate; or a 
stinging sarcasm which he would break through as he would 
burst through so many brambles on those hunting excur- 
sions in which he and Harry Warrington rode so constantly 
together; while George, retreating to his tents, read math- 
ematics and French and Latin, or sulked in his book- 
room. 

Harry was away from home with some other sporting 
friends when Mr. Washington came to pay a visit at Castle- 
vv^ood. He was so peculiarly tender and kind to the mis- 
tress there, and received by her with such special cor- 
diality, that George Warrington's jealousy had well-nigh 
broken out into open rupture. But the visit was one of 
adieu, as it appeared. Major Washington was going on a 
long and dangerous journey, quite to the western Virginia 
frontier and beyond it. The French had been for some 
time past making inroads into our territory. The govern- 
ment at home, as well as those of Virginia and Pennsyl- 
vania, were alarmed at this aggressive spirit of the lords of 
Canada and Louisiana. Some of our settlers had already 
been driven from their holdings by Frenchmen in arms, 
and the governors of the British provinces were desirous 
of stopping their incursions, or at any rate to protest against 
their invasion. 

We chose to hold our American colonies by a law that 
was at least convenient for its framers. The maxim was, 
that whoever possessed the coast had a right to all the ter- 

85 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

ritory in hand as far as the Pacific; so that the British 
charters only laid down the limits of the colonies from 
north to south, leaving them quite free from east to west. 
The French, meawhile, had their colonies to the north and 
south, and aimed at connecting them by the Mississippi 
and the St. Lawrence, and the great intermediate lakes 
and waters lying to the westward of the British possessions. 
In the year 1748, though peace was signed between the two 
European kingdoms, the colonial question remained un- 
settled, to be opened again when either party should be 
strong enough to urge it. In the year 1753 it came to an 
issue on the Ohio River where the British and French set- 
tlers met. 

A company called the Ohio Company, having grants 
from the Virginia government of lands along that river, 
found themselves invaded in their settlements by French 
military detachments, who roughly ejected the Britons from 
their holdings. These latter applied for protection to Mr. 
Dinwiddie, lieutenant governor of Virginia, who deter- 
mined upon sending an ambassador to the French com- 
manding officer on the Ohio demanding that the French 
should desist from their inroads upon the territories of his 
Majesty King George. 

Young Mr. Washington jumped eagerly at the chance 
of distinction which this service afforded him, and volun- 
teered to leave his home and his rural and professional 
pursuits in Virginia, to carry the governor's message to the 
French officer. Taking a guide, an interpreter, and a fev/ 
attendants, and following the Indian tracks, in the fall of 
the year 1753 the intrepid young envoy made his way from 
Williamsburg almost to the shores of Lake Erie, and found 
the French commander at Fort Le Boeuf. That officer's 
reply was brief; his orders were to hold the place and drive 

86 



THE VIRGINIANS 

all the English from it. The French avowed their inten- 
tion of taking possession of the Ohio. And with this rough 
answer the messenger from Virginia had to return through 
danger and difficulty, across lonely forest and frozen river, 
shaping his course by the compass, and camping at night 
in the snow by the forest fires. 

On his return from this expedition, which he had con- 
ducted with an heroic energy and simplicity. Major Wash- 
ington was a greater favourite than ever with the lady of 
Castlewood. She pointed him out as a model to both of 
her sons. "Ah, Harry!" she would say, "think of you, 
with your cock-fighting and your racing matches, and the 
Major away there in the wilderness, watching the French, 
and battling with the frozen rivers! Ah, George! learning 
may be a very good thing, but I wish my elder son were 
doing something in the service of his country!" 

Mr. Washington on his return home began at once raising 
such a regiment as, with the scanty pay and patronage of 
the Virginian government, he could get together, and pro- 
posed with the help of these men-of-war to put a more 
peremptory veto upon the French invaders than the solitary 
ambassador had been enabled to lay. A small force under 
another officer, Colonel Trent, had already been despatched 
to the west, with orders to fortify themselves so as to be able 
to resist any attack of the enemy. The French troops 
greatly outnumbering ours, came up with the English out- 
posts, who were fortifying themselves at a place on the 
confi.nes of Pennsylvania where the great city of Pittsburg 
now stands. A Virginian ofiicer with but forty men was 
in no condition to resist twenty times that number of Ca- 
nadians who -appeared before his incomplete works. He 
was suffered to draw back without molestation; and the 
French, taking possession of his fort, strengthened it and 

87 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

christened it by the name of the Canadian governor, Du 
Quesne. Up to this time no actual blow of war had been 
struck. It was strange that in a savage forest of Pennsyl- 
vania a young Virginian officer should fire a shot and 
waken up a war which was to last for sixty years, which 
was to cover his own country and pass into Europe, to cost 
France her American colonies, to sever ours from us, and 
create the great Western Republic; to rage over the old 
world when extinguished in the new; and of all the myriads 
engaged in the vast contest, to leave the prize of the greatest 
fame with him who struck the first blow! 

He little knew of the fate in store for him. A simple 
gentleman, anxious to serve his king and do his duty, he 
volunteered for the first service, and executed it with ad- 
mirable fidelity. In the ensuing year he took the com- 
mand of the small body of provincial troops with which 
he marched to repel the Frenchmen. He came up with 
their advanced guard and fired upon them, killing their 
leader. After this he had himself to fall back with his 
troops, and was compelled to capitulate to the superior 
French force. On the 4th of July, 1754, the Colonel 
marched out with his troops from the little fort where he 
had hastily entrenched himself, and which they called Fort 
Necessity, gave up the place to the conqueror, and took his 
way home. 

His command was over, his regiment disbanded after 
the fruitless, inglorious march and defeat. Saddened and 
humbled in spirit, the young officer presented himself after 
a while to his old friends at Castlewood. 

But surely no man can have better claims to sympathy 
than bravery, youth, good looks, and misfortune. Mr. 
Washington's room at Castlewood was more than ever Mr. 
Washington's room now. Madame Esmond raved about 



THE VIRGINIANS 

him and praised him in all her companies. She more than 
ever pointed out his excellences to her sons, contrasting his 
sterling qualities with Harry's love of pleasure and 
George's listless musing over his books. George vv^as not 
disposed to like Mr. Washington any better for his mother's 
extravagant praises. He coaxed the jealous demon within 
him until he must have become a perfect pest to himself 
and all his friends round about him. He uttered jokes so 
deep that his simple mother did not know their meaning, 
but sat bewildered at his sarcasms. 

Meanwhile the quarrel between the French and Eng- 
lish North Americans, from being a provincial, had grown 
to be a national quarrel. Reinforcements from France had 
already arrived in Canada, and English troops were ex- 
pected in Virginia. It was resolved to wrest from the 
French all the conquests they had made upon British do- 
minion. A couple of regiments were raised and paid by 
the king in America, and a fleet with a couple more was 
despatched from home under an experienced commander. 
In February, 1755, Commodore Keppel, in the famous ship 
" Centurion," anchored in Hampton Roads with two ships 
of war under his command, and having on board General 
Braddock, his staff, and a part of his troops. Mr. Brad- 
dock was appointed by the Duke. A fleet of transports 
speedily followed him bringing stores, and men and money 
in plenty. 

The arrival of the General and his little army caused 
a mighty excitement all through the provinces, and no- 
where greater than at Castlewood. Harry was off forth- 
with to see the troops under canvas at Alexandria. The 
sight of their lines delighted him, and the inspiring music 
of their fifes and drums. He speedily made acquaintance 
with the oflicers of both regiments ; he longed to join in the 

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BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

expedition upon which they were bound, and was a wel- 
come guest at their mess. 

We may be sure that the arrival of the army and the 
approaching campaign formed the subject of continued 
conversation in the Castlewood family. To make the cam- 
paign was the dearest wish of Harry's life. He dreamed 
only of war and battle; he was forever with the officers at 
Williamsburg; he scoured and cleaned and polished all the 
guns and swords in the house; he renewed the amusements 
of his childhood and had the negroes under arms, but 
eager as he was to be a soldier, he scarcely dared touch 
on the subject with George, for he saw to his infinite terror 
how George, too, was occupied with military matters, and 
having a feudal attachment for his elder brother, and wor- 
shipping him with an extravagant regard, he gave way in 
all things to him as the chief, and felt that should George 
wish to make the campaign he would submit. He took note 
that George had all the military books of his grandfather 
brought dovv^n from his book-shelves, and that he and Demp- 
ster were practising with the foils again; and he soon found 
that his fears were true. Mr. Franklin of Philadelphia, 
having heard that Madame Esmond had beeves and horses 
and stores in plenty, which might be useful to General 
Braddock, recommended the General to conciliate her by 
inviting her sons to dinner, which he at once did. The 
General and the gentlemen of his family made much of 
them, and they returned home delighted with their enter- 
tainment; and so pleased was their mother at the civility 
shown them that she at once penned a billet thanking his 
Excellency for his politeness, and begging him to fix the 
time when she might have the honour of receiving him at 
Castlewood. 

Madame Esmond made her boys bearers of the letter 

90 



THE VIRGINIANS 

in reply to his Excellency's message, accompanying her note 
with handsome presents for the General's staff and officers, 
which they were delighted to accept. 

" Would not one of the young gentlemen like to see 
the campaign?" the General asked. "A friend of theirs, 
who often spoke of them — Mr. Washington, who had been 
unlucky in the affair of last year — had already promised to 
join him as aide-de-camp, and his Excellency would gladly 
take another young Virginian gentleman into his family." 

Harry's eyes brightened and his face flushed at this 
offer. He would like with all his heart to go, he cried out. 
George said, looking hard at his younger brother, that one 
of them would be proud to attend his Excellency, whilst it 
would be the other's duty to take care of their mother at 
home. Harry allowed his senior to speak. However much 
he desired to go, he would not pronounce until George had 
declared himself. He longed so for the campaign that the 
actual wish made him timid. He dared not speak on the 
matter as he went home with George. They rode for miles 
in silence, or strove to talk upon indifferent subjects, each 
knowing what was passing in the other's mind, and afraid 
to bring the awful question to an issue. 

On their arrival at home the boys told their mother of 
General Braddock's offer. 

"I know it must happen," she said; "at such a crisis 
in the country our family must come forward. Have you 
— have you settled yet which of you is to leave me?" and 
she looked anxiously from one to another, dreading to hear 
either name. 

"The youngest ought to go, mother; of course I ought 
to go!" cries Harry, turning very red. 

" Of course, he ought," said Mrs. Mountain, who was 
present at their talk. 

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BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

" The head of the family ought to go, mother," says 
George, adding: " You would make the best soldier, I know 
that, dearest Hal. You and George Washington are great 
friends, and could travel well together, and he does not 
care for me, nor I for him, however much he is admired 
in the family. But, you see, 'tis the law of honour, my 
Harry. I must go. Had fate given you the benefit of that 
extra half hour of life which I have had before you, it 
would have been your lot, and you would have claimed 
your right to go first, you know you would." 

"Yes, George," said poor Harry; "I own I should." 

" You will stay at home, and take care of Castlewood 
and our mother. If anything happens to me, you are here 
to fill my place. I should like to give way, my dear, as you, 
I know, would lay down your life to serve me. But each 
of us must do his duty. What would our grandfather say 
if he were here? " 

The mother looked proudly at her two sons. " My 
papa would say that his boys were gentlemen," faltered 
Madame Esmond, and left the young men, not choosing 
perhaps to show the emotion which was filling her heart. 
It was speedily known amongst the servants that Mr. 
George was going on the campaign. Dinah, George's fos- 
ter-mother, was loud in her lamentations at losing him; 
Phillis, Harry's old nurse, was as noisy, because Master 
George, as usual, was preferred over Master Harry. Sady, 
George's servant, made preparations to follow his master, 
bragging incessantly of the deeds which he would do; 
while Gumbo, Harry's boy, pretended to whimper at being 
left behind, though at home Gumbo was anything but a 
fire-eater. 

But of all in the house Mrs, Mountain was the most 
angry at George's determination to go on the campaign. 

92 



THE VIRGINIANS 

She begged, implored, insisted that he should alter his de- 
termination; voted that nothing but mischief would come 
from his departure; and finally suggested that it was his 
duty to remain at home to protect his mother from the ad- 
vances of Colonel Washington, whom she assured him she 
believed to desire a rich wife, and that if George would go 
away he would come back to find George Washington mas- 
ter of Castlewood. As a proof of what she said she pro- 
duced part of a letter written by Colonel Washington to 
his brother, in which his words seemed to the romantic 
Mrs. Mountain to bear out her belief. This fragment, 
which she had found in the Colonel's room and with none 
too much honesty appropriated, she now showed to George, 
who after gazing at the document gave her a frightful look, 
saying, "I — I will return this paper to Mr. Washington." 
Mrs. Mountain was thoroughly scared then at what she 
had done and said, but it could not be taken back, so she was 
obliged to adjust herself to taking in good part whatever 
consequences might come of her dishonest act. 

On the day set for Madame Esmond's entertainment to 
General Braddock the House of Castlewood was set out 
with the greatest splendour; and Madame Esmond arrayed 
herself in a much more magnificent dress than she was 
accustomed to wear, while the boys were dressed alike in 
gold-corded frocks, braided waistcoats, silver-hilted sword, 
and wore each a solitaire. 

The General's new aide-de-camp was the first guest to 
arrive, and he and his hostess paced the gallery for some 
time. She had much to say to him, and also to hear from 
him a confirmation of his appointment as aide-de-camp to 
General Braddock, and to speak of her son's approaching 
departure. At length they descended the steps down to 
the rough lawn in front of the house, and presently the little 

93 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

lady re-entered her mansion, leaning upon Mr. Washing- 
ton's arm. Here they were joined by George, who came 
to them accurately powdered and richly attired, saluting 
his parent and his friend alike with respectful bows, ac- 
cording to the fashion of that time. 

But George, though he made the lowest possible bow to 
Mr. Washington and his mother, was by no means in good 
humour with either of them, and in all his further con- 
versation that day with Colonel Washington showed a bit- 
ter sarcasm and a depth of innuendo which the Colonel 
was at a loss to understand. A short time after George's 
entrance into the Colonel's presence Harry answered back 
a remark of George's to the effect that he hated sporting 
by saying, " I say one thing, George." , 

" Say twenty things, Don Enrico," cries the other. 

" If you are not fond of sporting and that, being cleverer 
than me, why shouldst thou not stop at home and be quiet, 
and let me go out with Colonel George and Mr. Brad- 
dock? That's what I say," says Harry, flushing with ex- 
citement. 

" One of our family must go because honour obliges it, 
and my name being number one, number one must go 
first," says George, adding, " One must stay, or who is to 
look after mother at home? We cannot afford to be both 
scalped by Indians or fricasseed by French." 

"Fricasseed by French," cries Harry; "the best troops 
of the world are Englishmen. I should like to see them 
fricasseed by the French! what a mortal thrashing you will 
give them!" and the brave lad sighed to think he should 
not be present at the combat. 

George sat down to the harpsichord and was playing 
when the Colonel re-entered, saying that his Excellency's 
coach would be here almost immediately, and asking leave 

94 



THE VIRGINIANS 

to retire to his apartment, to put himself in a fit condition 
to appear before her ladyship's company. As the widow 
was conducting Mr. Washington to his chamber, George 
gave way to a fit of wrath, ending in an explanation to his 
astonished brother of the reason of i-t, and telling him of 
Mrs. Mountain's suspicions concerning the Colonel's atti- 
tude towards their mother, which he confirmed by showing 
Harry the letter of Colonel Washington's which Mrs. 
Mountain had found and preserved. 

But to go back to Madame Esmond's feast for his Ex- 
cellency; all the birds of the Virginia air, and all the fish 
of the sea in season, and all the most famous dishes for 
which Madame Esmond was famous, and the best wine 
which her cellar boasted, were laid on the little widow's 
board to feed her distinguished guest and the other gen- 
tlemen who accompanied him. The kind mistress of Cas- 
tlewood looked so gay and handsome and spoke with such 
cheerfulness and courage to all her company that the few 
ladies who were present could not but congratulate Madame 
Esmond upon the elegance of the feast and upon her man- 
ner of presiding at it. But they were scarcely in the draw- 
ing-room, when her artificial courage failed her, and she 
burst into tears, exclaiming, " Ah, it may be an honour 
to have Mr. Braddock in my house, but he comes to take 
one of my sons away from me. Who knows whether my 
boy will return, or how? I dreamed of him last night as 
wounded, with blood streaming from his side." 

Meanwhile Mr. Washington was pondering deeply upon 
George's peculiar behaviour towards him. The tone of 
freedom and almost impertinence which young George 
had adopted of late towards Mr. Washington had very 
deeply vexed and annoyed that gentleman. There was 
scarce half a dozen years' difference of age between him 

95 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

and the Castlewood twins; but Mr. Washington had al- 
ways been remarked for a discretion and sobriety much 
beyond his time of life, whilst the boys of Castlewood 
seemed younger than theirs. They had always been till 
now under their mother's anxious tutelage, and had looked 
up to their neighbour of Mount Vernon as their guide, 
director, friend, as, indeed, almost everybody seemed to 
do who came in contact with the simple and upright young 
man. Himself of the most scrupulous gravity and good- 
breeding, in his communication with other folks he ap- 
peared to exact, or, at any rate, to occasion, the same 
behaviour. His nature was above levity and jokes: they 
seemed out of place when addressed to him. He was slow 
of comprehending them: and they slunk as it were abashed 
out of his society. " He always seemed great to me," says 
Harry Warrington, in one of his letters many years after 
the date of which we are writing; " and I never thought 
of him otherwise than as a hero. When he came over to 
Castlewood and taught us boys surveying, to see him riding 
to hounds was as if he was charging an army. If he fired 
a shot, I thought the bird must come down, and if he flung 
a net, the largest fish in the river were sure to be in it. His 
words were always few, but they were always wise; they 
were not idle, as our words are; they were grave, sober and 
strong, and ready on occasion to do their duty. In spite of 
his antipathy to him, my brother respected and admired 
the General as much as I did — that is to say, more than 
any mortal man." 

Mr. Washington was the first to leave the jovial party 
which were doing so much honour to Madame Esmond's 
hospitality. Young George Esmond, who had taken his 
mother's place when she left the dining-room, had been 
free with the glass and with the tongue. He had said a 

96 



THE VIRGINIANS 

score of things to his guest which wounded and chafed the 
latter, and to which Mr. Washington could give no reply. 
Angry beyond all endurance, he left the table at length, 
and walked away through the open windows into the broad 
veranda or porch which belonged to Castlewood as to all 
Virs;inian houses. 

Here Madame Esmond caught sight of her friend's tall 
frame as it strode up and down before the windows; and 
gave up her cards to one of the other ladies, and joined her 
good neighbour out of doors. He tried to compose his 
countenance as well as he could, but found it so difficult 
that presently she asked, " Why do you look so grave? " 

" Indeed, to be frank with you, I do not know what has 
come over George," says Mr. Washington. " He has some 
grievance against me which I do not understand, and of 
which I don't care to ask the reason. He spoke to me be- 
fore the gentlemen in a way which scarcely became him. 
We are going to the campaign together, and 'tis a pity we 
begin such ill friends." 

" He has been ill. He is always wild and wa5rward 
and hard to understand, but he has the most affectionate 
heart in the world. You will bear with him, you will 
protect him. Promise you will." 

" Dear lady, I will do so with my life," Mr. Washing- 
ton said heartily. " You know I would lay it down cheer- 
fully for you or any you love." 

" And my father's blessing and mine go with you, dear 
friend!" cried the widow. 

As they talked, they had quitted the porch and were 
pacing a walk before the house. Young George Warring- 
ton, from his place at the head of the table in the dining- 
room, could see them, and after listening in a very dis- 
tracted manner for some time to the remarks of the gentle- 

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BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

men around him, he jumped up and pulled his brother 
Harry by the sleeve, turning him so that he, too, could see 
his mother and the Colonel. 

Somewhat later, when General Braddock and" the 
other guests had retired to their apartments, the boys went 
to their own room, and there poured out to one another 
their opinions respecting the great event of the day. They 
would not bear such a marriage— No. Was the represen- 
tative of the Marquis of Esmond to marry the younger 
son of a colonial family, who had been bred up as a land 
surveyor — Castlewood and the boys at nineteen years of 
age handed over to the tender mercies of a step-father of 
three and twenty? Oh, it was monstrous! Harry was for 
going straightway to his mother, protesting against the 
odious match, and announcing that they would leave her 
forever if the marriage took place. 

George had another plan for preventing it, which he 
explained to his admiring brother. " Our mother," he 
said, " can't marry a man with whom one or both of us 
has been out on the field, and who has wounded us or 
killed us, or whom we have wounded or killed. We must 
have him out, Harry." 

Harry saw the profound truth conveyed in George's 
statement, and admired his brother's immense sagacity. 
" No, George," says he, " you are right. Mother can't 
marry our murderer; she won't be as bad as that. And if 
we pink him, he is done for. Shall I send my boy with a 
challenge to Colonel George now?" 

" We can't insult a gentleman in our own house," said 
George with great majesty; "the laws of honour forbid 
such inhospitable treatment. But, sir, we can ride out 
with him, and, as soon as the park gates are closed, we can 
tell him our mind." 

98 



THE VIRGINIANS 

"That we can, by George!" cries Harry, grasping his 
brother's hand, " and that we will, too. I say, Geor- 

gie •" Here the lad's face became very red, and his 

brother asked him what he would say. 

** This is my turn, brother," Harry pleaded. " If you 
go to the campaign, I ought to have the other affair. In- 
deed, indeed, I ought." And he prayed for this bit of 
promotion. 

" Again the head of the house must take the lead, my 
dear," George said with a superb air. " If I fall, my 
Harry will avenge me. But I must fight George Wash- 
ington, Hal; and 'tis best I should; for, indeed, I hate 
him the worst. Was it not he who counselled my mother 
to order that wretch. Ward, to lay hands on me? " 

" Colonel Washington is my enemy especially. He 
has advised one wrong against me, and he meditates a 
greater. I tell you, brother, we must punish him." 

The grandsire's old Bordeaux had set George's ordi- 
narily pale countenance into a flame. Harry, his brother's 
fondest worshipper, could not but admire George's 
haughty bearing and rapid declamation, and prepared 
himself, with his usual docility, to follow his chief. So 
the boys went to their beds, the elder conveying special 
injunctions to his junior to be civil to all the guests so long 
as they remained under the maternal roof on the morrow. 

The widow, occupied as she had been with the cares 
of a great dinner, followed by a great breakfast on the 
morning ensuing, had scarce leisure to remark the behav- 
iour of her sons very closely, but at least saw that George 
was scrupulously polite to her favourite. Colonel Washing- 
ton, as to all the other guests of the house. 

Before Mr. Braddock took his leave he had a private 
audience with Madame Esmond, in which his Excellency 

99 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

formally arranged to take her son into his family; after 
which the jolly General good-naturedly shook hands with 
George, and bade George welcome and to be in attend- 
ance at Frederick three days hence; shortly after which 
time the expedition would set forth. 

And now the great coach was again called into requi- 
sition, the General's escort pranced round it, the other 
guests and their servants went to horse. 

As the boys went up the steps, there was the Colonel 
once more taking leave of their mother. No doubt she 
had been once more recommending George to his name- 
sake's care; for Colonel Washington said: "With my life. 
You may depend on me," as the lads returned to their 
mother and the few guests still remained in the porch. 
The Colonel was booted and ready to depart. " Farewell, 
my dear Harry," he said. " With you, George, 'tis no 
adieu. We shall meet in three days at the camp." 

George Warrington watched his mother's emotion, 
and interpreted it with a pang of malignant scorn. " Stay 
yet a moment, and console our mamma," he said with a 
steady countenance, " only the time to get ourselves booted, 
and my brother and I will ride with you a little way, 
George." George Warrington had already ordered his 
horses. The three young men were speedily under way, 
their negro grooms behind them, and Mrs. Mountain, 
who knew she had made mischief between them and trem- 
bled for the result, felt a vast relief that Mr. Washington 
was gone without a quarrel with the brothers, without, at 
any rate, an open declaration of love to their mother. 

No man could be more courteous in demeanour than 
George Warrington to his neighbour and name-sake, the 
Colonel, who was pleased and surprised at his young 
friend's altered behaviour. The community of danger, the 

lOO 



THE VIRGINIANS 

necessity of future fellowship, the softening influence of 
the long friendship which bound him to the Esmond 
family, the tender adieux which had just passed between 
him and the mistress of Castlewood, inclined the Colonel 
to forget the unpleasantness of the past days, and made him 
more than usually friendly with his young companion'. 
George was quite gay and easy: it was Harry who was 
melancholy now; he rode silently and wistfully by his 
brother, keeping away from Colonel Washington, to whose 
side he used always to press eagerly before. If the honest 
Colonel remarked his young friend's conduct, no doubt he 
attributed it to Harry's known afifection for his brother, 
and his natural anxiety to be with George now the day of 
their parting was so near. 

They talked further about the war, and the probable 
end of the campaign; none of the three doubted its suc- 
cessful termination. Two thousand veteran British troops 
with their commander must get the better of any force the 
French could bring against them. The ardent young Vir- 
ginian soldier had an immense respect for the experienced 
valour and tactics of the regular troops. King George II. 
had no more loyal subject than Mr. Braddock's new aide- 
de-camp. 

So the party rode amicably together, until they reached 
a certain rude log-house, called Benson's, where they found 
a rough meal orepared for such as were disposed to par- 
take, 

A couple of Halkett's officers, whom our young gentle- 
men knew, were sitting under the porch, with the Vir- 
ginian toddy bowl before them, and the boys joined them 
and sent for glasses and more toddy, in a very grown-up 
manner. 

George called out to Colonel Washington, who was at 

lOI 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

the porch, to join his friends and drink, with the intention 
of drawing Mr. Washington into some kind of a disa- 
greement. 

The lad's tone was offensive, and resembled the man- 
ner lately adopted by him, which had so much chafed 
Mr. Washington. He bov/ed, and said he was not thirsty. 

"Nay, the liquor is paid for," says George; " never 
fear, Colonel." 

*' I said I was not thirsty. I did not say the liquor 
was not paid for," said the young Colonel, drumming with 
his foot. 

" When the King's health is proposed, an officer can 
hardly say no. I drink the health of his Majesty, gentle- 
men," cried George. " Colonel Washington can drink it 
or leave it. The King! " 

This was a point of military honour. The two British 
officers of Halkett's, Captain Grace and Mr. Waring, both 
drank " The King." Harry Warrington drank " The 
King." Colonel Washington, with glaring eyes, gulped, 
too, a slight draught from the bowl. 

Then Captain Grace proposed " The Duke and the 
Army," which toast there w^as -likewise no gainsaying. Col- 
onel Washington had to swallow " The Duke and the 
Army." 

" You don't seem to stomach the toast. Colonel," said 
George. 

" I tell you again, I don't want to drink," replied the 
Colonel. " It seems to me the Duke and the Army would 
be served all the better if their healths were not drunk so 
often." 

"A British officer," said Captain Grace, with doubt- 
ful articulation, " never neglects a toast of that sort, nor any 
other duty. A man who refuses to drink the health of the 

♦ 102 



THE VIRGINIANS 

Duke — hang me, such a man should be tried by a court- 
martial!" 

"What means this language to me? You are drunk, 
sir!" roared Colonel Washington, jumping up and strik- 
ing the table with his first. 

"A cursed provincial officer say I'm drunk!" shrieks 
out Captain Grace. "Waring, do you hear that?" 

"/ heard it, sir!" cried George Warrington. "We 
all heard it. We entered at my invitation — the liquor 
called for w^as mine; the table was mine — and I am shocked 
to hear such monstrous language used at it as Colonel 
Washington has just employed towards my esteemed guest. 
Captain Waring." 

" Confound your impudence, you infernal young jack- 
anapes!" bellowed out Colonel Washington. " Yom dare 
to insult me before British officers, and find fault vAth my 
language? For months past I have borne with such im- 
pudence from you, that if I had not loved your mother 
— yes, sir, and your good grandfather and your brother — 

I would " Here his words failed him, and the irate 

Colonel, with glaring eyes and purple face, and every 
limb quivering with wrath, stood for a moment speechless 
before his young enemy. 

" You would what, sir," says George, very quietly, 
" if you did not love my grandfather, and my brother, and 
my mother? You are making her petticoat a plea for some 
conduct of yours! You would do what, sir, may I ask 
again?" 

" I would put you across my knee and whip you, you 
snarling little puppy! That's what I would do! " cried the 
Colonel, who had found breath by this time, and vented 
another explosion of fury. 

" Because you have known us all our lives, and made 

103 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

our house your own, that is no reason why you should 
insult either of us! " here cried Harry, starting up. " What 
you have said, George Washington^ is an insult to me and 
my brother alike. You will ask our pardon, sir!" 

"Pardon!" 

" Or give us the reparation that is due to gentlemen," 
continues Harry. 

The stout Colonel's heart smote, him to think that he 
should be at mortal quarrel, or called upon to shed the 
blood of one of the lads he loved. As Harry stood facing 
him, with his fair hair, flushing cheeks, and quivering 
voice, an immense tenderness and kindness filled the bosom 
of the elder man. " I — I am bewildered," he said. " My 
words, perhaps, were very hasty. What has been the mean- 
ing of George's behaviour to me for months back? Only 
tell me, and, perhaps " 

The evil spirit was awake and victorious in young 
George Warrington; his black eyes shot out scorn and 
hatred at the simple and guileless gentleman before him. 
" You are shirking from the question, sir, as you did from 
the toast just now," he said. " I am not a boy to suffer 
under your arrogance. You have publicly insulted me in 
a public place, and I demand a reparation." 

" As you please, George Warrington — and God for- 
give you, George! God pardon you, Harry! for bringing 
me into this quarrel," said the Colonel, with a face full 
of sadness and gloom. 

Harry hung his head, but George continued with per- 
fect calmness: "I, sir? It was not I who called names, 
who talked of a cane, who insulted a gentleman in a public 
place before the gentlemen of the army. It is not the first 
time you have chosen to take me for a negro, and talked 
of the whip for me." 

104 



THE VIRGINIANS 

The Colonel started back, turning very red, and as if 
struck by a sudden remembrance. 

"Great heavens, George! is it that boyish quarrel you 
are still recalling? " 

"Who made you overseer of Castlewood?" said the 
boy, grinding his teeth. " I am not your slave, George 
Washington, and I never will be. I hated you then, and 
I hate you now. And you have insulted me, and I am a 
gentleman, and so are you. Is that not enough?" 

" Too much, only too much," said the Colonel, with 
a genuine grief on his face, and at his heart. " Do you 
bear malice, too, Harry? I had not thought this of 
thee I" 

" I stand by my brother," said Harry, turning away 
from the Colonel's look, and grasping George's hand. The 
sadness on their adversary's face did not depart. " Heaven 
be good to us! 'Tis all clear now," he muttered to himself. 
" The time to write a few letters, and I am at your service, 
Mr. Warrington," he said. 

" You have your own pistols at your saddle. I did not 
ride out with any; but will send Sady back for mine. 
That will give you time enough. Colonel Washington? " 

" Plenty of time, sir." And each gentleman made the 
other a low bow, and, putting his arm in his brother's, 
George walked away. The Virginian officer looked to- 
wards Captain Benson, the master of the tavern, saying, 
" Captain Benson, you are an old frontier man, and an 
officer of ours, before you turned farmer and taverner. 
You will help me in this matter with yonder young gentle- 
man?" said the Colonel. , 

" I'll stand by and see fair play, Colonel. I won't 
have any hand in it, beyond seeing fair play. You ain't 
a-goin' to be very hard with them poor boys? Though I 

105 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

seen 'em both shoot; the fair one hunts well, as you know, 
but the old one's a wonder at an ace of spades." 

" Will you be pleased to send my man with my valise. 
Captain, into any private room which you can spare me? 
I must write a few letters before this business comes on. 
God grant it were well over!" And the Captain led the 
Colonel into a room of his house where he remained oc- 
cupied with gloomy preparations for the ensuing meeting. 
His adversary in the other room also thought fit to make his 
testamentary dispositions, too, dictated by his own obedient 
brother and secretary, a grandiloquent letter to his mother, 
of whom, and by that writing, he took a solemn farewell. 
She would hardly, he supposed, pursue the scheme which 
she had in view after the event of that morning, should he 
fall, as probably would be the case. 

"My dear, dear George, don't say that!" cried the 
affrighted secretary. 

" As probably will be the case," George persisted with 
great majesty. " You know what a good shot Colonel 
George is, Harry. I, myself, am pretty fair at a mark, and 
'tis probable that one or both of us will drop — I scarcely 
suppose you will carry out the intentions you have at 
present in view." This was uttered in a tone of still greater 
bitterness than George had used even in the previous 
phrase, and he added in a tone of surprise: " Why, Harry, 
what have you been writing, and who taught thee to 
spell?" Harry had written the last words " in view," in 
vew, and a great blot of salt water from his honest, boyish 
eyes may have obliterated some other bad spelling. 

" I can't think about the spelling now, Georgy," whim- 
pered George's clerk. " I'm too miserable for that. I be- 
gin to think, perhaps, it's all nonsense; perhaps Colonel 

George never " 

1 06 



THE VIRGINIANS 

"Never meant to take possession of Castlewood; never 
gave himself airs, and patronised us there; never advised 
my mother to have me flogged; never intended to marry 
her; never insulted me, and was insulted before the King's 
officers; never wrote to his brother to say that we should 
be the better for his parental authority? The paper is 
there," cried the young man, slapping his breast-pocket, 
" and if anything happens to me, Harry Warrington, you 
will find it on my corse! " 

" Write, yourself, Georgie, I can't write," says Harry, 
digging his fists into his eyes, and smearing over the whole 
composition, bad spelling and all, with his elbows. 

On this, George, taking another sheet of paper, sat 
down at his brother's place, and produced a composition in 
which he introduced the longest words, the grandest Latin 
quotations, and the most profound satire of which the 
youthful scribe was master. He desired that his negro boy, 
Sady, should be set free; that his " Horace," a choice of his 
books, and, if possible, a suitable provision should be made 
for his affectionate tutor, Mr. Dempster; that his silver 
fruit-knife, his music-books, and harpischord should be 
given to little Fannie Mountain; and that his brother 
should take a lock of his hair, and wear it in memory of his 
ever fond and faithfully attached George. And he sealed 
the document with the seal of arms that his grandfather 
had worn. 

" The watch, of course, will be yours," said George, 
taking out his grandfather's gold watch and looking at it. 
" Why, two hours and a half are gone! 'Tis time that Sady 
should be back with the pistols. Take the watch, Harry, 
dear." 

"It's no good!" cried out Harry, flinging his arms 
round his brother. " If he fights you, I'll fight him, too. 

107 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

If he kills my Georgie, he shall have a shot at me! " cried 
the poor lad. 

Meanwhile, Mr. Washington had written five letters 
in his large resolute hand, and sealed them with his seal. 
One was to his mother, at Mount Vernon; one to his 
brother; one was addressed M. C. only; and one to his 
Excellency, Major-General Braddock. " And one, young 
gentlemen, is for your mother, Madame Esmond," said the 
boys' informant. 

It was the landlord of the tavern who communicated 
these facts to the young men. The Captain had put on his 
old militia uniform to do honour to the occasion, and in- 
formed the boys that the " Colonel was walking up and 
down the garden a-waiting for 'em, and that the Reg'lars 
was a'most sober, too, by this time." 

A plot of ground near the Captain's log house had 
been enclosed with shingles, and cleared for a kitchen-gar- 
den; there indeed paced Colonel Washington, his hands 
behind his back, his head bowed down, a grave sorrow on 
his handsome face. The negro servants were crowded at 
the palings and looking over. The officers under the porch 
had wakened up also, as their host remarked. 

There, then, stalked the tall young Colonel, plunged 
in dismal meditation. There was no way out of his scrape, 
but the usual cruel one, which the laws of honour and the 
practice of the country ordered. Goaded into fury by the 
impertinence of a boy, he had used insulting words. The 
young man had asked for reparation. He was shocked to 
think that George Warrington's jealousy and revenge 
should have rankled in the young fellow so long; but the 
wrong had been the Colonel's, and he was bound to pay 
the forfeit. 

A great hallooing and shouting, such as negroes use, 

io8 



THE VIRGINIANS 

who love noise at all times, was now heard at a distance, 
and all heads were turned in the direction of this outcry. 
It came from the road over which our travellers had them- 
selves passed three hours before, and presently the clat- 
tering of a horse's hoofs was heard, and now Mr. Sady 
made his appearance on his foaming horse. Presently he 
was in the court-yard, and was dismounting. 

" Sady, sir, come here! " roars out Master Harry. 

"Sady, come here, confound you!" shouts Master 
George. 

" Come directly, Mas'r," says Sady. He grins. He 
takes the pistols out of the holster. He snaps the locks. 
He points them at a grunter, which plunges through the 
farm-yard. He points down the road, over which he has 
just galloped, and says again, " Comin', Mas'r. Every- 
body a-comin'." And now, the gallop of other horses is 
heard. And who is yonder? Little Mr. Dempster, spur- 
ring and digging into his pony; and that lady in a riding- 
habit on Madame Esmond's little horse — can it be Madame 
Esmond? No. It is too stout. As I live it is Mrs. Moun- 
tain on Madame's grey!" 

"OLor'I O Golly! Hoop! Here dey come! Hur- 
ray!" 

Dr. Dempster and Mrs. Mountain having clattered 
into the yard, jumped from their horses, and ran to the 
garden where George and Harry were walking, their tall 
enemy stalking opposite to them; and almost ere George 
Warrington had time sternly to say, " What do you here, 
Madame? " Mrs. Mountain flung her arms round his neck 
and cried: "Oh, George, my darling! It's a mistake! It's 
a mistake, and is all my fault!" 

"What's a mistake?" asks George, majestically sep- 
arating himself from the embrace. 

109 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

"What is it, Mounty? " cries Harry, all of a tremble. 

" That paper I took out of his portfolio, that paper I 
picked up, children; where the Colonel says he is going to 
marry a widow with two children. Well, it's — it's not 
your mother. It's that little Widow Custis whom the Col- 
onel is going to marry. It's not Mrs. Rachel Warrington. 
He told Madame so to-day, just before he was going away, 
and that the marriage was to come ofif after the campaign. 
And — and your mother is furious, boys. And when Sady 
came for the pistols, and told the whole house how you 
were going to fight, I told him to fire the pistols ofif; and I 
galloped after him, and I've nearly broken my poor old 
bones in coming to you." 

" What will Mr. Washington and those gentlemen 
think of my servant telling my mother at home that I 
was going to fight a duel?" growled Mr. George in 
wrath. 

" You should have shown your proofs before, George," 
says Harry, respectfully. " And, thank Heaven, you are not 
going to fight our old friend. For it was a mistake; and 
there is no quarrel now, dear, is there? You were unkind 
to him under a wrong impression." 

" I certainly acted under a wrong- impression," owns 
George, " but " 

"George! George Washington!" Harry here cries 
out, springing over the cabbage garden towards the bowl- 
ing-green, where the Colonel was stalking, and though we 
cannot hear him, we see him, with both his hands out, and 
with the eagerness of 3^outh, and with a hundred blunders, 
and with love and affection thrilling in his honest voice, 
we imagine the lad telling his tale to his friend. 

There was a custom in those days which has disap- 
peared from our manners now, but which then lingered. 

no 



THE VIRGINIANS 

When Harry had finished his artless story his friend the 
Colonel took him fairly to his arms, and held him to his 
heart; and his voice faltered as he said, "Thank God, 
thank God for this!" 

" Oh, George," said Harry, who felt now he loved his 
friend with all his heart, " how I wish I was going with 
you on the campaign! " The other pressed both the boy's 
hands in a grasp of friendship, which, each knew, never 
would slacken. 

Then the Colonel advanced, gravely holding out his 
hand to Harry's elder brother. But, though hands were 
joined, the salutation was only formal and stern on both 
sides. 

" I find I have done you a wrong, Colonel Washing- 
ton," George said, " and must apologise, not for the error, 
but for much of my late behaviour, which has resulted 
from it." 

"The error was mine! It was I who found that paper 
in your room and showed it to George, and was jealous of 
you, Colonel. All women are jealous," cried Mrs. Moun- 
tain. 

" 'Tis a pity you could not have kept your eyes ofif my 
paper, Madame," said Mr. Washington. " You will permit 
me to say so. A great deal of mischief has come because 
I chose to keep a secret which concerned only myself and 
another person. For a long time George Warrington's heart 
has been black with anger against me, and my feeling to- 
wards him has, I own, scarce been more friendly. All this 
pain might have been spared to both of us had my private 
papers only been read by those for whom they were written. 
I shall say no more now, lest my feelings again should be- 
tray me into hasty words. Heaven bless thee, Harry! 
Farewell, George! And take a true friend's advice, and 

III 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

try to be less ready to think evil of your friends. We . 
shall meet again at the camp, and will keep our weapons / ^ 
for the enemy. Gentlemen ! if you remember this scene to- ' 
morrow, you will know where to find me." And with a 
very stately bow to the English officers, the Colonel left the ,y 
abashed company, and speedily rode away. ^ 

We must fancy that the parting between the brothers 
is over, that George has taken his place in Mr. Braddock's 
family, and Harry has returned home to Castlewood and 
his duty. His heart is with the army, and his pursuits at 
home offer the boy no pleasure. He does not care to own 
how deep his disappointment is, at being obliged to stay 
under the homely, quiet roof, now more melancholy than 
ever since George is away. Harry passes his brother's 
empty chamber with an averted face; takes George's place 
at the head of the table, and sighs as he drinks from his 
silver tankard. Madame Warrington calls the toast of 
"The King" stoutly every day; and on Sundays when 
Harry reads the Service, and prays for all travellers by 
land and by water, she says, " We beseech Thee to hear 
us," with a peculiar solemnity. 

Mrs. Mountain is constantly on the whimper when 
George's name is mentioned, and Harry's face frequently 
wears a look of the most ghastly alarm; but his mother's 
is invariably grave and sedate. She makes more blunders 
at piquet and backgammon than you would expect from 
her; and the servants find her awake and dressed, however 
early they may rise. She has prayed Mr. Dempster to come 
back into residence at Castlewood. She is not severe or 
haughty, as her wont certainly was, with any of the party, 
but quiet in her talk with them, and gentle in assertion and 
reply. She is forever talking of her father and his cam- 
paigns, who came out of them all with no very severe 

112 



THE VIRGINIANS 

wounds to hurt him; and so she hopes and trusts will her 
eldest son. 

George writes frequent letters home to his brother, and, 
now the army is on its march, compiles a rough journal, 
which he forwards as occasion serves. This document is 
read with great eagerness by Harry, and more than once 
read out in family councils on the long summer nights as 
Madame Esmond sits upright at her tea-table; as little 
Fanny Mountain is busy with her sewing, as Mr. Demp- 
ster and Mrs. Mountain sit over their cards, as the hushed 
old servants of the house move about silently in the gloam- 
ing and listen to the words of the young master. Hearken 
to Harry Warrington reading out his brother's letter! 

" It must be owned that the provinces are acting scur- 
vily by his Majesty King George, and his representative 
here is in a flame of fury. Virginia is bad enough, and poor 
Maryland not much better, but Pennsylvania is worst of 
all. We pray them to send us troops from home to fight the 
French; and we propose to maintain the troops when they 
come. We not only don't keep our promise, and make 
scarce any provision for our defenders, but our people 
insist upon the most exorbitant prices for their cattle and 
stores, and actually cheat the soldiers who are come to fight 
their battles. No wonder the General swears, and the 
troops are sulky. The delays have been endless. Owing 
to the failure of the several provinces to provide their 
promised stores and means of locomotion, weeks and months 
have elapsed, during which time no doubt the French have 
been strengthening themselves on our frontier and in the 
forts they have turned us out of. Though there never will 
be any love lost between me and Colonel Washington, it 
must be owned that your favourite (I am not jealous, Hal) 
is a brave man and a good officer. The family respect him 

113 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

very much, and the General is always asking his opinion. 
Indeed, he is almost the only man who has seen the Indians 
in their war-paint, and I own I think he was right in firing 
upon Mons. Jumonville last year." 

Harry resumes: "We keep the strictest order here in 
camp, and the orders against drunkenness and ill behaviour 
on the part of the men are very severe. The roll of each 
company is called at morning, noon, and night, and a re- 
turn of the absent and disorderl}^ is given in by the officer 
to the commanding officer of the regiment, who has to see 
that they are properly punished. Each regiment has Di- 
vine Service performed at the head of its colours every Sun- 
day, The General does everything in the power of mortal 
man to prevent plundering, and to encourage the people 
round about to bring in provisions. He has declared sol- 
diers shall be shot who dare to interrupt or molest the market 
people. He has ordered the price of provisions to be raised 
a penny a pound, and has lent money out of his own pocket 
to provide the camp. Altogether he is a strange compound, 
this General, and shows many strange inconsistencies in his 
conduct. 

" Colonel Washington has had the fever very smartly, 
and has hardly been well enough to keep up with the 
march. When either of us is ill, we are almost as good 
friends again as ever, and though I don't love him as you 
do. I know he is a good soldier, a good officer, and a brave, 
honest man; and, at any rate, shall love him none the 
worse for not wanting to be our step-father." 

" 'Tis a pretty sight," Harry continued, reading from 
his brother's journal, " to see a long line of red coats thread- 
ing through the woods or taking their ground after the 
march. The care against surprise is so great and constant 
that we defy prowling Indians to come unawares upon us, 

114 



THE VIRGINIANS 

and our advanced sentries and savages have on the con- 
trary fallen in with the enemy and taken a scalp or two 
from them. They are such cruel villains, these French and 
their painted allies, that we do not think of showing them 
mercy. Only think, we found but yesterday a little boy 
scalped but yet alive in a lone house, where his parents 
had been attacked and murdered by the savage enemy, of 
whom — so great is his indignation at their cruelty — our 
General has ofifered a reward of £5 for all the Indian 
scalps brought in. 

" When our march is over, you should see our camp, and 
all the care bestowed on it. Our baggage and our General's 
tents and guard are placed quite in the centre of the camp. 
We have outlying sentries by twos, by threes, by tens, by 
whole companies. At the least surprise, they are instructed 
to run in on the main body and rally round the tents and 
baggage, which are so arranged themselves as to be a 
strong fortification. Sady and I, you must know, are 
marching on foot now, and my horses are carrying bag- 
gage. The Pennsylvanians sent such rascally animals into 
camp that they speedily gave in. What good horses were 
left 'twas our duty to give up; and Roxana has a couple of 
packs upon her back instead of her young master. She 
knows m.e right well, and whinnies when she sees me, and 
I walk by her side, and we have many a talk together on 
the march, 

" July 4. To guard against surprises, we are all 
warned to pay especial attention to the beat of the drum; 
always halting when we hear the long roll beat, and march- 
ing at the beat of the long march. We are more on the 
alert regarding the enemy now. We have our advanced 
pickets doubled, and two sentries at every post. The men 
on the advanced pickets are constantly under arms, with 

IIS 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

fixed bayonets, all through the night, and relieved every two 
hours. The half that are relieved lie dov^n by their arms, 
but are not suffered to leave their pickets. 'Tis evident 
that we are drawing near to the enemy now. This packet 
goes out with the General's to Colonel Dunbar's camp, who 
is thirty miles behind us; and will be carried thence to 
Frederick, and thence to my honoured mother's house at 
Castlewood, to whom I send my duty, with kindest remem- 
brances, as to all friends there, and how much love I need 
not say to my dearest brother from his affectionate 
George E. Warrington." 

The whole land was now lying parched and scorching 
in the July heat. For ten days no news had come from the 
column advancing on the Ohio. Their march, though it 
toiled but slowly through the painful forest, must bring ere 
long up with the enemy; the troops, led by consummate cap- 
tains, were accustomed now to the wilderness, and not afraid 
of surprise. Every precaution had been taken against am- 
bush. It was the outlying enemy who were discovered, 
pursued, destroyed, by the vigilant scouts and skirmishers 
of the British force. The last news heard was that the 
army had advanced considerably beyond the ground of Mr. 
Washington's discomfiture in the previous year, and two 
days after must be within a day's march of the French 
fort. About taking it no fears were entertained; the amount 
of the French reinforcements from Montreal was known. 
Mr. Braddock, with his two veteran regiments from Brit- 
ain, and their allies of Virginia and Pennsylvania, was 
more than a match for any troops that could be collected 
under the white flag. 

Such continued to be the talk, in the sparse towns of 
our Virginian province, at the gentry's houses, and the 
rough road-side taverns, where people met and canvassed 

ii6 



THE VIRGINIANS 

the war. The few messengers sent back by the General 
reported well of the main force. It was thought the enemy 
would not stand or defend himself at all. Had he intended 
to attack, he might have seized a dozen occasions for as- 
saulting our troops at passes through which they had been 
allowed to go entirely free. So George had given up his 
favourite mare, like a hero as he was, and was marching 
a-foot with the line. Madame Esmond vowed that he 
should have the best horse in Virginia or Carolina in place 
of Roxana. There were horses enough to be had in the 
provinces, and for money. It was only for the King's serv- 
ice that they were not forthcoming. 

Although at their family meetings and repasts the in- 
mates of Castlewood always talked cheerfully, never an- 
ticipating any but a triumphant issue to the campaign, or 
acknowledging any feeling of disquiet, yet it must be owned 
they were mighty uneasy when at home, quitting it cease- 
lessly, and forever on the trot from one neighbour's house 
to another in quest of news. It was prodigious how quickly 
reports ran and spread. For three weeks after the army's 
departure, the reports regarding it were cheerful; and when 
our Castlewood friends met at their supper their tone was 
confident and their news pleasant. 

But on the loth of July a vast and sudden gloom spread 
over the province. A look of terror and doubt seemed to 
fall upon every face. Affrighted negroes wistfully eyed 
their masters and retired, to hum and whisper with one an- 
other. The fiddles ceased in the quarters; the song and 
i laugh of those cheery black folk were hushed. Right and 
left everybody's servants were on the gallop for news. The 
country taverns were thronged with horsemen, who drank 
and cursed and brawled at the bars, each bringing his 
gloomy story. The army had been surprised. The troops 

117 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

had fallen into an ambuscade, and had been cut up almost 
to a man. All the officers were taken down by the French 
marksmen and the savages. The General had been 
wounded, and carried off the field in his sash. Four days 
afterwards the report was that the General was dead, and 
scalped by a French Indian. 

Ah, what a scream poor Mrs. Mountain gave when 
Gumbo brought this news from across the James River, 
and little Fanny sprang crying to her mother's arms! 
" Lord God Almighty, watch over us, and defend my boy! " 
said Mrs. Esmond, sinking down on her knees and lifting 
her rigid hands to heaven. The gentlemen were not at 
home when the rumour arrived, but they came in an hour 
or two afterwards, each from his hunt for news. The 
Scotch tutor did not dare to meet the widow's agonising 
looks. Harry Warrington was as pale as his mother. It 
might not be true about the manner of the General's death 
— but he was dead. The army had been surprised by In- 
dians, and had fled, and been killed without seeing the 
enemy. An express had arrived from Dunbar's camp. Fu- 
gitives were pouring in there. Should he go and see? He 
must go and see. He and stout little Dempster armed them- 
selves and mounted, taking a couple of mounted servants 
with them. 

They followed the northward track which the expedi- 
tionary army had hewed out for itself, and at every step 
which brought them nearer to the scene of action, the dis- 
aster of the fearful day seemed to magnify. The day after 
the defeat a number of the miserable fugitives from the 
fatal battle of the 9th of July had reached Dunbar's camp, 
fifty miles from the field. Thither poor Harry and his com- 
panions rode, stopping stragglers, asking news, giving 
money, getting from one and all the same gloomy tale. 

118 



THE VIRGINIANS 

A thousand men were slain — two-thirds of the officers were 
down — all the General's aides-de-camp were hit. Were hit 
— but were they killed? Those who fell never rose again. 
The tomahawk did its ^york upon them. Oh, brother 
brother! All the fond memories of their youth, all the dear 
remembrances of their childhood, the love and the laughter, 
the tender romantic vows which they had pledged to each 
other as lads, were recalled by Harry with pangs inex- 
pressibly keen. Wounded men looked up and were soft- 
ened by his grief; rough men melted as they saw the woe 
written on the handsome young face; the hardy old tutor 
could scarcely look at him for tears, and grieved for him 
even more than for his dear pupil, who, he believed, lay 
dead under the savage Indian knife. 

At every step which Harry Warrington took towards 
Pennsylvania the reports of the British disaster were mag- 
nified and confirmed. Those two famous regiments which 
had fought in the Scottish and Continental wars had fled 
from an enemy almost unseen, and their boasted discipline 
and valour had not enabled them to face a band of savages 
and a few French infantry. The unfortunate commander 
of the expedition had shown the utmost bravery and 
resolution. 

Four times his horse had been shot under him. Twice 
he had been wounded, and the last time of the mortal 
hurt which ended his life three days after the battle. More 
than one of Harry's informants described the action to the 
poor lad," — the passage of the river, the long line of ad- 
vance through the wilderness, the firing in front, the vain 
struggle of the men to advance, and the artillery to clear 
the way of the enemy; then the ambushed fire from behind 
every bush and tree, and the murderous fusillade, by which 

119 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

at least half of the expeditionary force had been shot down. 
But not all the General's suite were killed, Harry heard. 
One of his aides-de-camp, a Virginian gentleman, was ill 
of fever and exhaustion at Dunbar's camp. 

One of them — but which? To the camp Harry hur- 
ried, and reached it at length. It was George Washington 
Harry found stretched in a tent there, and not his brother. 
A sharper pain than that of the fever Mr. Washington 
declared he felt, when he saw Harry Warrington, and 
could give him no news of George. 

Mr. Washington did not dare to tell Harry all. For 
three days after the fight his duty had been to be near the 
General. On the fatal 9th of July he had seen George 
go to the front with orders from the chief, to whose side 
he never returned. After Braddock himself died, the aide- 
de-camp had found means to retrace his course to the 
field. The corpses which remained there were stripped 
and horribly mutilated. One body he buried which he 
thought to be George Warrington's. His own illness was 
increased, perhaps occasioned, by the anguish which he 
underwent in his search for the unhappy volunteer. 

"Ah, George! If you had loved him you would have 
found him dead or alive," Harry cried out. Nothing 
would satisfy him but that he, too, should go to the ground 
and examine it. With money he procured a guide or two. 
He forded the river at the place where the army had 
passed over; he went from one end to the other of the 
dreadful field. The horrible spectacle of mutilation caused 
him to turn away with shudder and loathing. What news 
could the vacant woods, or those festering corpses lying 
under the trees, give the lad of his lost brother? He was 
for going, unarmed, with a white flag, to the French fort, 
whither, after their victory, the enemy had returned; but his 

120 



THE VIRGINIANS 

guides refused to advance with him. The French might pos- 
sibly respect them, but the Indians would not. " Keep your 
hair for your lady-mother, my young gentleman," said the 
guide. " 'Tis enough that she loses one son in this cam- 
paign." 

When Harry returned to the English encampment at 
Dunbar's it was his turn to be down with the fever. De- 
lirium set in upon him, and he lay some time in the tent 
and on the bed from which his friend had just risen con- 
valescent. For some days he did not know who watched 
him; and poor Dempster, who had tended him in more than 
one of these maladies, thought the widow must lose both her 
children; but the fever was so far subdued that the boy 
was enabled to rally somewhat, and get on horseback. Mr. 
Washington and Dempster both escorted him home. It 
was with a heavy heart, no doubt, that all three beheld once 
more the gates of Castlewood. 

A servant in advance had been sent to announce their 
coming. First came Mrs. Mountain and her little daugh- 
ter, welcoming Harry with many tears and embraces; but 
she scarce gave a nod of recognition to Mr. Washington; 
and the little girl caused the young officer to start, and turn 
deadly pale, by coming up to him with her hands behind 
her, and asking, '' Why have you not brought George back, 
too?" I 

Dempster was graciously received by the two ladies. 
" Whatever could be done, we know you would do, Mr. 
Dempster," says Mrs. Mountain, giving him her hand. 
" Make a curtsey to Mr. Dempster, Fanny, and remember, 
child, to be grateful to all who have been friendly to our 
benefactors. Will it please you to take any refreshment 
before you ride, Colonel Washington?" 

Mr. Washington had had a sufficient ride already, and 

121 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

counted as certainly upon the hospitality of Castlewood as 
he would upon the shelter of his own house. 

" The time to feed my horse, and a glass of water for 
myself, and I will trouble Castlewood hospitality no far- 
ther," Mr. Washington said. 

" Sure, George, you have your room here, and my 
mother is above stairs getting it ready!" cries Harry. 
" That poor horse of yours stumbled with you, and can't 
go farther this evening." 

"Hush! Your mother won't see him, child," whis- 
pered Mrs. Mountain. 

"Not see George? Why, he is like a son of the 
house," cries Harry. 

" She had best not see him. I don't meddle any more 
in family matters, child; but when the Colonel's servant 
rode in, and said you were coming, Madame Esmond left 
this room and said she felt she could not see Mr. Wash- 
ington. Will you go to her? " Harry took Mrs. Moun- 
tain's arm^ and excusing himself to the Colonel, to whom 
he said he would return in a few minutes, he left the parlour 
in which they had assembled, and went to the upper rooms, 
where Madame Esmond was. 

He was hastening across the corridor, and, with an 
averted head, passing by one especial door, which he did 
not like to look at, for it was that of his brother's room; 
and as he came to it, Madame Esmond issued from it, and 
folded him to her heart, and led him in. A settee was by 
the bed, and a book of psalms lay on the coverlet. All the 
rest of the room was exactly as George had left it. 

"My poor child! How thin thou art grown — how 
haggard you look! Never mind. A mother's care will 
make thee well again. 'Twas nobly done to go and brave 
sickness and danger in search of your brother. Had others 

122 



THE VIRGINIANS 

been as faithful, he might be here now. Never mind, my 
Harry; our hero will come back to us. I know he is not 
dead. He will come back to us, I know he will come." 
And when Harry pressed her to give a reason for her 
belief, she said she had seen her father two nights running 
in a dream, and he had told her that her boy was a prisoner 
among the Indians. 

Madame Esmond's grief had not prostrated her as 
Harry's had when first it fell upon him; it had rather 
stirred and animated her; her eyes were eager, her counte- 
nance angry and revengeful. The lad wondered almost at 
the condition in which he found his mother. 

But when he besought her to go downstairs, and give 
her a hand of welcome to George Washington, who had 
accompanied him, the lady's excitement painfully in- 
creased. She said she should shudder at touching his hand. 
She declared Mr. Washington had taken her son from her; 
she could not sleep under the same roof with him. 

" No gentleman," cried Harry, warmly, " was ever 
refused shelter under my grandfather's roof." 

" Oh, no, gentlemen! " exclaims the little widow; "well 
let us go down, if you like, son, and pay our respects 
to this one. Will you please to give us your arm?" and 
taking an arm which was very little able to give her sup- 
port, she walked down the broad stairs and into the apart- 
ment where the Colonel sat. 

She made him a ceremonious curtsey, and extended 
one of the little hands, which she allowed for a moment to 
rest in his. " I wish that our meeting had been happier. 
Colonel Washington," she said. 

" You do not grieve more than I do that it is other- 
wise, Madame," said the Colonel. 

" I might have wished that the meeting had been 

123 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

spared, that I might not have kept you from friends whom 
you are naturally anxious to see, that my boy's indisposition 
had not detained you. Home and his good nurse Mountain, 
and his mother and our good Dr. Dempster will soon 
restore him. 'Twas scarce necessary, Colonel, that you who 
have so many afifairs on your hands, military and domestic, 
should turn doctor too." 

" Harry was ill and weak, and I thought it was my duty 
to ride by him," faltered the Colonel. 

" You yourself, sir, have gone through the fatigues and 
dangers of the campaign in the most wonderful manner," 
said the widow, curtseying again, and looking at him with 
her impenetrable black eyes. 

" I wish to Heaven, Madame, someone else had come 
back in my place! " 

" Nay, sir, you have ties which must render your life 
more than ever valuable and dear to you, and duties to 
which, I know, you must be anxious to betake yourself. In 
our present deplorable state of doubt and distress Castle- 
wood can be a welcome place to no stranger, much less to 
you, and so I know, sir, you will be for leaving us ere 
long. And you will pardon me if the state of my own spirits 
obliges me for the most part to keep my chamber. But my 
friends here will bear you company as long as you favour 
us, whilst I nurse my poor Harry upstairs. Mountain! 
you will have the cedar room on the ground floor ready 
for Mr. Washington and anything in the house is at his 
command. Farewell, sir. Will you be pleased to present 
my compliments to your mother, who will be thankful to 
have her son safe and sound out of the war? — as also to my 
young friend, Martha Custis, to whom and to whose chil- 
dren I wish every happiness. Come, my son!" and with 
these words, and another freezing curtsey, the pale little 

124 



THE VIRGINIANS 

woman retreated, looking steadily at the Colonel, who stood 
dumb on the floor. 

Strong as Madame Esmond's belief appeared to be re- 
specting her son's safety, the house of Castlewood naturally 
remained sad and gloomy. To look for George was hoping 
against hope. No authentic account of his death had in- 
deed arrived, and no one appeared who had seen him fall, 
but hundreds more had been so stricken on that fatal day, 
with no eyes to behold their last pangs, save those of the 
lurking enemy and the comrades dying by their side. A 
fortnight after the defeat, when Harry was absent on his 
quest, George's servant, Sady, reappeared, wounded and 
maimed, at Castlewood. But he could give no coherent 
account of the battle, only of his flight from the centre, 
where he was with the baggage. He had no news of his 
master since the morning of the action. For many days 
Sady lurked in the negro quarters away from the sight of 
Madame Esmond, whose anger he did not dare to face. 
That lady's few neighbours spoke of her as labouring under 
a delusion. So strong was it that there were times when 
Harry and the other members of the little Castlewood 
family were almost brought to share in it. No. George 
was not dead; George was a prisoner among the Indians; 
George would come back and rule over Castlewood; as 
sure, as sure as his Majesty would send a great force from 
home to recover the tarnished glory of the British arms, 
and to drive the French out of the Americas. 

As for Mr. Washington, she would never, with her own 
good will, behold him again. He had promised to guard 
George's life with his own, and where was her boy. 

So, if Harry wanted to meet his friend, he had to do so 
in secret. Madame Esmond was exceedingly excited when 
she heard that the Colonel and her son absolutely had met, 

125 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

and said to Harry, " How you can talk, sir, of loving 
George, and then go and meet your Mr. Washington, I 
can't understand." 

So there was not only grief in the Castlewood House, 
but there was disunion. As a result of the gloom, and of 
his grief for the loss of his brother, Harry was again and 
again struck down by the fever, and all the Jesuits' bark in 
America could not cure him. They had a tobacco-house 
and some land about the new town of Richmond, and he went 
thither and there mended a little, but still did not get quite 
well, and the physicians strongly counselled a sea-voyage. 
Madame Esmond at one time had thoughts of going with 
him, but, as she and Harry did not agree very well, though 
they loved each other very heartily, 'twas determined that 
Harry should see the world for himself. 

Accordingly he took passage on the " Young Rachel," 
Virginian ship, Edward Franks master. She proceeded to 
Bristol and moored as near as possible to Trail's wharf, 
to which she was consigned. Mr. Trail, who could survey 
his ship from his counting-house windows, straightway took 
boat and came up her side, and gave the hand of welcome 
to Captain Franks, congratulating the Captain upon the 
speedy and fortunate voyage which he had made. 

Franks was a pleasant man, who loved a joke. " We 
have," says he, " but yonder ugly negro boy, who is fetch- 
ing the trunks, and a passenger who has the state cabin 
to himself." 

Mr. Trail looked as if he would have preferred more 
mercies from Heaven. " Confound you, Franks, and your 
luck! The 'Duke William,' which came in last week, 
brought fourteen, and she is not half of our tonnage." 

" And this passenger, who has the whole cabin, don't 
pay nothin'," continued the Captain. " Swear now, it will 

126 



THE VIRGINIANS 

do you good, Mr. Trail, indeed it will. I have tried the 
medicine." 

" A passenger take the whole cabin and not pay? Gra- 
cious mercy, are you a fool, Captain Franks? " 

" Ask the passenger himself, for here he comes." And as 
the master spoke, a young man of some nineteen years of age 
came up the hatchway. He had a cloak and a sword under 
his arm, and was dressed in deep mourning, and called out, 
" Gumbo, you idiot, why don't you fetch the baggage out of 
the cabin? Well, shipmate, our journey is ended. You will 
see all the little folks to-night whom you have been talking 
about. Give my love to Polly, and Betty, and little Tommy; 
not forgetting my duty to Mrs. Franks. I thought, yester- 
day, the voyage would never be done, and now I am almost 
sorry it is over. That little berth in my cabin looks very 
comfortable now I am going to leave it." 

Mr. Trail scowled at the young passenger who had paid 
no money for his passage. He scarcely nodded his head to 
the stranger, when Captain Franks said: " This here gen- 
tleman is Mr. Trail, sir, whose name you have a-heerd of." 

" It's pretty well known in Bristol, sir," says Mr. Trail, 
majestically. 

" And this is Mr. Warrington, Madame Esmond War- 
rington's son, of Castlewood," continued the Captain. 

The British merchant's hat was instantly off his head, 
and the owner of the beaver was making a prodigious num- 
ber of bows, as if a crown-prince were before him. 

"Gracious powers, Mr. Warrington! This is a delight, 
indeed! What a crowning mercy that your voyage should 
have been so prosperous! You have my boat to go on shore* 
Let me cordially and respectfully welcome you to Eng- 
land! Let me shake your hand as the son of my benefac- 
tress and patroness, Mrs. Esmond Warrington, whose name 

127 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

is known and honoured on Bristol 'Change, I warrant you. 
Isn't it, Franks?" 

" There's no sweeter tobacco comes from Virginia," says 
Mr. Franks, drawing a great brass tobacco-box from his 
pocket, and thrusting a quid into his jolly mouth. "You 
don't know^ what a comfort it is, sir; you'll take to it, bless 
you, as you grow older. Won't he, Mr. Trail? I wish you 
had ten shiploads of it instead of one. You might have ten 
shiploads; I've told Madame Esmond so; I've rode over 
her plantation; she treats me like a lord when I go to the 
house. She is a real-born lady, she is; and might have a 
thousand hogsheads as easy as her hundreds, if there were 
but hands enough." 

" I have lately engaged in the Guinea trade, and could 
supply her ladyship with any number of healthy young 
negroes before next fall," said Mr. Trail, obsequiously. 

" We are averse to the purchase of negroes from Africa," 
said the young gentleman, coldly. " My grandfather and 
my mother have always objected to it, and I do not like to 
think of selling or buying the poor wretches." 

" It is for their good, my dear young sir! We purchased 
the poor creatures only for their benefit; let me talk this 
matter over with you at my own house. I can introduce you 
to a happy home, a Christian family, and a British mer- 
chant's honest fare. Can't I, Captain Franks?" 

" Can't say," growled the Captain. " Never asked me 
to take bite or sup at your table. Asked me to psalm-sing- 
ing once, and to hear Mr. Ward preach: don't care for 
them sort of entertainments." 

Not choosing to take any notice of this remark, Mr. Trail 
continued in his low tone: " Business is business, my dear 
young sir, and I know 'tis only my duty, the duty of all of 
us, to cultivate the fruits of the earth in their season. As 

128 



THE VIRGINIANS 

the heir of Lady Esmond's estate — for I speak, I believe, 
to the heir of the great property? " 

The young gentleman made a bow. 

" I would urge upon you, at the very earliest moment, 
the duty of increasing the ample means with which Heaven 
has blessed you. As an honest factor, I could not do other- 
wise: as a prudent man, should I scruple to speak of what 
will tend to your profit and mine? No, my dear Mr. 
George." 

" My name is not George; my name is Henry," said the 
young man as he turned his head away, and his eyes filled 
with tears. 

"Gracious powers I what do you mean, sir? Did you 
not say you were my lady's heir, and is not George Esmond 
Warrington, Esq. ? " 

"Hold your tongue, you fool!" cried Mr. Franks, 
striking the merchant a tough blow on his sleek sides, as 
the young lad turned away. " Don't you see the young 
gentleman a-swabbing his eyes, and note his black clothes? " 

" What do you mean. Captain Franks, by laying your 
hand on your owners? Mr. George is the heir; I know 
the Colonel's w^ill well enough." 

" Mr. George is there," said the Captain, pointing with 
his thumb to the deck. 

" Where? " cries the factor. 

"Mr. George is there!" reiterated the Captain, again 
lifting up his finger towards the topmast, or the sky be- 
yond. " He is dead a year, sir, come next 9th of July. He 
would go out with General Braddock on that dreadful 
business to the Belle Riviere. He and a thousand more 
never came back again. Every man of them was murdered 
as he fell. You know the Indian way, Mr. Trail?" And 
here the Captain passed his hand rapidly round his head. 

129 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

" Horrible! ain't it, sir? Horrible! He was a fine young 
man, the very picture of this one; only his hair was black, 
which is now hanging in a bloody Indian wigwam. He 
was often and often on board of the ' Young Rachel,' and 
would have his chests of books broke open on deck before 
they landed. He was a shy and silent young gent, not like 
this one, which was the merriest, wildest young fellow, full 
of his songs and fun. He took on dreadful at the news; 
went to his bed, had that fever which lays so many of 'em 
by the heels along that swampy Potomac, but he's got better 
on the voyage: the voyage makes everyone better; and, in 
course, the young gentleman can't be forever a-crying after 
a brother who dies and leaves him a great fortune. Ever 
since we sighted Ireland he has been quite gay and happy, 
only he would go ofi at times when he was most merry, 
saying, ^ I wish my dearest Georgie could enjoy this here 
sight along with me,' and when you mentioned t'other's 
name, you see, he couldn't stand it." And the honest Cap- 
tain's own eyes filled with tears, as he turned and looked 
towards the object of his compassion. 

Mr. Trail assumed a sad expression befitting the tragic 
compliment with which he prepared to greet the young 
Virginian ; but the latter answered him very curtly, de- 
clining his offers of hospitality, and only stayed in Mr. 
Trail's house long enough to drink a glass of wine and to 
take up a sum of money of which he stood in need. But 
he and Captain Franks parted on the very warmest terms, 
and all the little crew of the " Young Rachel " cheered from 
the ship's side as their passenger left it. 

Again and again Harry Warrington and his brother had 
pored over the English map, and determined upon the 
course which they should take upon arriving at Home. All 
Americans of English ancestry who love their mother coun- 

130 



THE VIRGINIANS 

try have rehearsed their English travels, and visited in 
fancy the spots with w^hich their hopes, their parents' fond 
stories, their friends' descriptions, have rendered them fa- 
miliar. There are few things to me more affecting in the 
history of the quarrel which divided the two great nations 
than the recurrence of that word Home, as used by the 
younger towards the elder country. Harry Warrington 
had his chart laid out. Before London, and its glorious 
temples of St. Paul's and St. Peter's; its grim Tower, 
where the brave and loyal had shed their blood, from Wal- 
lace down to Balmerino and Kilmarnock, pitied by gentle 
hearts; before the awful window at Whitehall, whence the 
martyr Charles had issued, to kneel once more, and then 
ascended to Heaven; before playhouses, parks, and palaces, 
wondrous resorts of wit, pleasure and splendour; before 
Shakespeare's resting-place under the tall spire which rises 
by Avon, amidst the sweet Warwickshire pastures; before 
Derby, and Falkirk, and Culloden, where the cause of 
honour and loyalty had fallen, it might be to rise no more: 
before all these points in their pilgrimage there was one 
which the young Virginian brothers held even more sacred, 
and that was the home of their family, that old Castlewood 
in Hampshire, about which their parents had talked so 
fondly. From Bristol to Bath, from Bath to Salisbury, to 
Winchester, to Hexton, to Home ; they knew the way, and 
had mapped the journey many and many a time. 

We must fancy our American traveller to be a handsome 
young fellow, whose suit of sables only makes him look the 
more interesting. The plump landlady looked kindly after 
the young gentleman as he passed through the inn-hall from 
his post-chaise, and the obsequious chamberlain bowed him 
upstairs to the " Rose " or the " Dolphin." The trim cham- 
bermaid dropped her best curtsey for his fee, and Gumbo, 

131 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

in the inn-kitchen, where the townsfolk drank their mug 
of ale by the great fire, bragged of his young master's 
splendid house in Virginia, and of the immense wealth to 
which he was heir. The post-chaise whirled the traveller 
through the most delightful home scenery his eyes had ever 
lighted on. If English landscape is pleasant to the Ameri- 
can of the present day, who must needs contrast the rich 
woods and growing pastures and picturesque ancient vil- 
lages of the old country with the rough aspect of his own, 
how much pleasanter must Harry Warrington's course have 
been, whose journeys had lain through swamps and forest 
solitudes from one Virginian ordinary to another log-house 
at the end of the day's route, and who now lighted suddenly 
upon the busy, happy, splendid scene of English summer? 
And the high-road, a hundred years ago, was not that grass- 
grown desert of the present time. It was alive with constant 
travel and traffic: the country towns and inns swarmed with 
life and gaiety. The ponderous waggon, with its bells and 
plodding team; the light post-coach that achieved the 
journey from the " White Hart," Salisbury, to the " Swan 
with Two Necks," London, in two days; the strings of 
pack-horses that had not yet left the road; my lord's gilt 
post-chaise and six, with the outriders galloping on ahead; 
the country squire's great coach and heavy Flanders mares; 
the farmers trotting to market, or the parson jolting to the 
cathedral town on Dumpling, his wife behind on the pillion 
— all these crowding sights and brisk people greeted the 
young traveller on his summer journey. Hodge, the far- 
mer's boy, took off his hat, and Polly, the milk-maid, bobbed 
a curtsey, as the chaise whirled over the pleasant village- 
green, and the white-headed children lifted their chubby 
faces and cheered. The church-spires glistened with gold, 
the cottage-gables glared in sunshine, the great elms mur- 

132 



THE VIRGINIANS 

mured in summer, or cast purple shadows over the grass. 
Young Warrington never had had such a glorious day, or 
witnessed a scene so delightful. To be nineteen years of 
age, with high health, high spirits, and a full purse, to be 
making your first journey, and rolling through the country 
in a post-chaise at nine miles an hour — Oh, happy youth I 
almost it makes one young to think of him! 

And there let us leave him at Castlewood Inn, on ground 
hallowed by the footsteps of his ancestors. There he stands, 
with new scenes, new friends, new experiences ahead, rich 
in hope, in expectation, and in the enthusiasm of youth — 
youth that comes but once, and is so fleet of foot! 

And still more glad would he have been had he known 
that the near future was to verify his mother's belief; to 
restore to him the twin-brother now mourned as dead. 
And glad are we, in looking beyond this story of boyhood 
days, to find that though in the Revolutionary War the 
subjects of this sketch fought on different sides in the quar- 
rel, they came out peacefully at its conclusion, as brothers 
should, their love never having materially diminished, how- 
ever angrily the contest divided them. 

The colonel in scarlet and the general in blue and buflf 
hang side by side in the wainscoted parlour of the War- 
ringtons in England, and the portraits are known by the 
name of " The Virginians." 



133 



BECKY SHARP AT 
SCHOOL 



155 




^-Ksacs-as- >f"^ 



Becky Sharp leaving Chiswick. 



BECKY SHARP AT 
SCHOOL 



WHILE the last century was in its teens, and 
on one sunshiny morning in June, there drove 
up t6 the great iron gate of Miss Pinkerton's 
Academy for young ladies, on Chiswick Mall, 
a large family coach, with two fat horses in 
blazing harness, driven by a fat coachman in a three-cor- 
nered hat and wig, at the rate of four miles an hour. A 
black servant, who reposed on the box beside the fat coach- 
man, uncurled his bandy legs as soon as the equipage drew 
up opposite Miss Pinkerton's shining brass plate; and as 
he pulled the bell at least a score of young heads were seen 
peering out of the narrow windows of the stately old brick 
house. Nay, the acute observer might have recognised the 
little red nose of good-natured Miss Jemima Pinkerton 
herself, rising over some geranium-pots in the window of 
that lady's own drawing-room. " It is Mrs. Sedley's coach, 
sister," said Miss Jemima. " Sambo, the black servant, has 
just rung the bell; and the coachman has a new red 
waistcoat." 

" Have you completed all the necessary preparations in- 
cident to Miss Sedley's departure, Miss Jemima?" asked 
Miss Pinkerton, that majestic lady, the friend of the famous 
literary man, Dr. Johnson, the author of the great Dixonary 

137 



BOYS AND GIRLS fro^n THACKERAY 

of the English language, called commonly the great Lexi- 
cographer. 

" The girls were up at four this morning, packing her 
trunks, sister," replied Miss Jemima; "we have made her 
a bow-pot." 

" Say a bouquet, sister Jemima, 'tis more genteel." 

" Well, a booky as big almost as a hay-stack; I have put 
up two bottles of the gillyflower-water for Mrs. Sedley, 
and the receipt for making it, in Amelia's box." 

"And I trust, Miss Jemima, you have made a copy of 
Miss Sedley's account. This is it, is it? Very good — ninety- 
three pounds, four shillings. Be kind enough to address 
it to John Sedley, Esquire, and to seal this billet which I 
have written to his lady." 

In Miss Jemima's eyes an autograph letter of her sister, 
Miss Pinkerton, was an object of as deep veneration as 
would have been a letter from a sovereign. Only when her 
pupils quitted the establishment, or when they were about 
to be married, and once, when poor Miss Birch died of the 
scarlet fever, was Miss Pinkerton known to write personally 
to the parents of her pupils; and it was Jemima's opinion 
that if anything could have consoled Mrs. Birch for her 
daughter's loss, it would have been that pious and eloquent 
composition in which Miss Pinkerton announced the event. 

In the present instance Miss Pinkerton's "billet" was 
to the following effect: 

The Mall, Chiswick, June 15, 18 — . 
Madam: After her six years' residence at the Mall, I have the honour 
and happiness of presenting Miss Amelia Sedley to her parents, as a young 
lady not unworthy to occupy a fitting position in their polished and re- 
fined circle. Those virtues which characterise the young English gentle- 
woman; those accomplishments which become her birth and station, will 
not be found wanting in the amiable Miss Sedley, whose industry and 

138 



BECKY SHARP AT SCHOOL 

obedience have endeared her to her instructors, and whose delightful 
sweetness of temper has charmed her aged and her youthful companions. 

In music, dancing, in orthography, in every variety of embroidery and 
needle-work, she will be found to have realised her friends' fondest wishes. 
In geography there is still much to be desired; and a careful and un- 
deviating use of the back-board, for four hours daily during the next 
three years is recommended as necessary to the acquirement of that dig- 
nified deportment and carriage so requisite for every young lady of 
fashion. 

In the principles of religion and morality. Miss Sedley will be found 
worthy of an establishment which has been honoured by the presence of 
The Great Lexicographer, and the patronage of the admirable Mrs. 
Chapone. In leaving them all, Miss Amelia carries with her the hearts 
of her companions, and the affectionate regards of her mistress, who has 
the honour to subscribe herself, Madam, your most obliged humble 
servant, 

Barbara Pinkerton. 

P.S. — Miss Sharp accompanies Miss Sedley. It is particularly re- 
quested that Miss Sharp's stay in Russell Square may not exceed ten days. 
The family of distinction with whom she is engaged as governess desire 
to avail themselves of her services as soon as possible. 

This letter completed, Miss Pinkerton proceeded to 
write her own name and Miss Sedley's in the fly-leaf of a 
Johnson's Dictionary, the interesting work which she in- 
variably presented to her scholars on their departure from 
the Mall. On the cover was inserted a copy of " Lines 
addressed to a young lady on quitting Miss Pinkerton's 
school, at the Mall; by the late revered Dr. Samuel John- 
son." In fact, the Lexicographer's name was always on 
the lips of this majestic woman, and a visit he had paid to 
her was the cause of her reputation and her fortune. 

Being commanded by her elder sister to get The Dix- 
onary from the cupboard, Miss Jemima had extracted two 
copies of the book from the receptacle in question. When 

139 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

Miss Pinkerton had finished the inscription in the first, 
Jemima, with rather a dubious and timid air. handed her 
the second. 

" For whom is this, Miss Jemima? " said Miss Pinkerton, 
with awful coldness. 

" For Becky Sharp," answered Jemima, trembling very 
much, and blushing over her withered face and neck, as 
she turned her back on her sister. " For Becky Sharp. 
She's going, too." 

"MISS JEMIMA!" exclaimed Miss Pinkerton, in the 
largest capitals. " Are you in your senses? Replace the 
Dixonary in the closet, and never venture to take such a 
liberty in future." 

" Well, sister, it's only two and nine-pence, and poor 
Becky will be miserable if she don't get one." 

" Send Miss Sedley instantly to me," was Miss Pinker- 
ton's only answer. And, venturing not to say another word, 
poor Jemima trotted off, exceedingly flurried and nervous, 
while the two pupils, Miss Sedley and Miss Sharp, were 
making final preparation for their departure for Miss Sed- 
ley's home. 

Now, Miss Sedley's papa was a merchant in London, 
and a man of some wealth, whereas Miss Sharp was only 
an articled pupil, for whom Miss Pinkerton had done, as 
she thought, quite enough, without conferring upon her at 
parting the high honour of the dixonary. Miss Sharp's 
father had been an artist, and in former years had given 
lessons in drawing at Miss Pinkerton's school. He was a 
clever man, a pleasant companion, a careless student, with 
a great propensity for running into debt, and a partiality 
for the tavern. As it was with the utmost difficulty that 
he could keep himself, and as he owed money for a mile 
round Soho, where he lived, he thought to better his cir- 

140 



BECKY SHARP AT SCHOOL 

cumstances by marrying a young woman of the French na- 
tion, who was by profession an opera-girl, who had had 
some education somewhere, and her daughter Rebecca 
spoke French with purity and a Parisian accent. It was 
in those days rather a rare accomplishment, and led to her 
engagement with the orthodox Miss Pinkerton. For, her 
mother being dead, her father, finding himself fatally ill, as 
a consequence of his bad habits, wrote a manly and pathetic 
letter to Miss Pinkerton, recommending the orphan child 
to her protection, and so descended to the grave, after two 
bailififs had quarrelled over his corpse. Rebecca was seven- 
teen whtn she came to Chiswick, and was bound over as 
an articled pupil; her duties being to talk French, as we 
have seen; and her privileges to live cost free, and with a 
few guineas a year, to gather scraps of knowledge from the 
professors who attended the school. 

She was small, and slight in person; pale, sandy-haired, 
and with eyes almost habitually cast down. When they 
looked up, they were very large, odd, and attractive. By 
the side of many tall and bouncing young ladies in the 
establishment Rebecca Sharp looked like a child. But she 
had the dismal precocity of poverty. Many a dun had she 
talked to, and turned away from her father's door; many 
a tradesman had she coaxed and wheedled into good-hu- 
mour, and into the granting of one meal more. She had 
sat commonly with her father, who was very proud of her 
wit, and heard the talk of many of his wild companions, 
often but ill-suited for a girl to hear; but she had never 
been a girl, she said; she had been a woman since she was 
eight years old. 

Miss Jemima, however, believed her to be the most in- 
nocent creature in the world, so admirably did Rebecca 
play the part of a child on the occasions when her father 

141 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

brought her to Chiswick as a young girl, and only a year 
before her father's death, and when she was sixteen years 
old. Miss Pinkerton majestically and with a little speech 
made her a present of a doll, which was, by the way, the 
confiscated property of Miss Swindle, discovered surrepti- 
tiously nursing it in school-hours. How the father and 
daughter laughed as they trudged home together after the 
evening party, and how Miss Pinkerton would have raged 
had she seen the caricature of herself which the little mimic, 
Rebecca, managed to make out of the doll. Becky used 
to go through dialogues with it; it formed the delight of 
the circle of young painters who frequented the' studio, 
who used regularly to ask Rebecca if Miss Pinkerton was 
at home. Once Rebecca had the honour to pass a few days , 
at Chiswick, after which she brought back another doll 
which she called Miss Jemmy; for, though that honest 
creature had made and given her jelly and cake enough for 
three children, and a seven-shillings piece at parting, the 
girl's sense of ridicule was far stronger than her grati- 
tude; and she sacrificed Miss Jemmy as pitilessly as her 
sister. 

Then came the ending of Becky's studio days, and, an 
orphan, she was transplanted to the Mall as her home. 

The rigid formality of the place suffocated her; the 
prayers and meals, the lessons and the walks, which were 
arranged with the regularity of a convent, oppressed her 
almost beyond endurance; and she looked back to the free- 
dom and the beggary of her father's old studio with bitter 
regret. She had never mingled in the society of women : 
her father, reprobate as he was, was a man of talent; his 
conversation was a thousand times more agreeable to her 
than the silly chat and scandal of the schoolgirls, and the 
frigid correctness of the governesses equally annoyed her. 

142 



BECKY SHARP AT SCHOOL 

She had no soft maternal heart, this unlucky girl. The 
prattle of the younger children, with whose care she was 
chiefly entrusted, might have soothed and interested her; 
but she lived among them two years, and not one was sorry 
that she went away. The gentle, tender-hearted Amelia 
Sedley was the only person to whom she could attach her- 
self in the least; and who could help attaching herself to 
Amelia? 

The happiness, the superior advantages of the young 
women round about her, gave Rebecca inexpressible pangs 
of envy. " What airs that girl gives herself, because she 
is an Earl's granddaughter," she said of one. " How they 
cringe and bow to the Creole, because of her hundred thou- 
sand pounds. I am a thousand times cleverer and more 
charming than that creature, for all her wealth. I am as 
well bred as the Earl's granddaughter, for all her fine pedi- 
gree; and yet everyone passes me by here." 

She determined to get free from the prison in which she 
found herself, and now began to act for herself, and for 
the first time to make connected plans for the future. 

She took advantage, therefore, of the means of study the 
place offered her; and as she was already a musician and 
a good linguist, she speedily went through the little course 
of study considered necessary for ladies in those days. Her 
music she practised incessantly; and one day, when the 
girls were out, and she remained at home, she was overheard 
to play a piece so well that Miss Minerva thought, wisely, 
she could spare herself the expense of a master for the 
juniors, and intimated to Miss Sharp that she was to instruct 
them in music for the future. 

The girl refused; and for the first time, and to the aston- 
ishment of the majestic mistress of the school. " I am here 
to speak French with the children," Rebecca said abruptly, 

143 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

" not to teach them music, and save money for you. Give 
me money, and I will teach them." 

Miss Minerva w^as obliged to yield, and of course dis- 
liked her from that day. " For five-and-thirty years," she 
said, and with great justice, *' I never have seen the indi- 
vidual who has dared in my own house to question my 
authority. I have nourished a viper in my bosom." 

" x\ viper — a fiddlestick!" said Miss Sharp to the old 
lady, who was almost fainting with astonishment. " You 
took me because I was useful. There is no question of 
gratitude between us. I hate this place, and want to leave it. 
I will do nothing here but what I am obliged to do." 

It was in vain that the old lady asked her if she was aware 
she was speaking to Miss Pinkerton? Rebecca laughed in 
her face. " Give me a sum of money," said the girl, " and 
get rid of me. Or, if you like better, get me a good place 
as governess in a nobleman's family. You can do so if you 
please." And in their further disputes she always returned 
to this point: " Get me a situation — I am ready to go." 

Worthy Miss Pinkerton, although she had a Roman nose 
and a turban, and was as tall as a grenadier, and had been 
up to this time an irresistible princess, had no will or 
strength like that of her little apprentice, and in vain did 
battle against her, and tried to overawe her. Attempting 
once to scold her in public, Rebecca hit upon the plan of 
answering her in French, which quite routed the old woman, 
who did not understand or speak that language. In order 
to maintain authority in her school, it became necessary to 
remove this rebel, this firebrand; and hearing about this 
time that Sir Pitt Crawley's family was in want of a gov- 
erness, she actually recommended Miss Sharp for the situa- 
tion, firebrand and serpent as she was. " I cannot cer- 
tainly," she said, " find fault with Miss Sharp's conduct, 

144 



BECKY SHARP AT SCHOOL 

except to myself; and must allow that her talents and ac- 
complishments are of a high order. As far as the head goes, 
at least, she does credit to the educational system pursued 
at niy establishment." 

And so the schoolmistress reconciled the recommendation 
to her conscience, and the apprentice was free. And as 
Miss Sedley, being now in her seventeenth year, was about 
to leave school, and had a friendship for Miss Sharp (" 'Tis 
the only point in Amelia's behaviour," said Miss Minerva, 
"which has not been satisfactory to her mistress"), Miss 
Sharp was invited by her friend to pass a week with her in 
London, before Becky entered upon her duties as governess 
in a private family; which thoughtfulness on the part of 
Amelia was only an additional proof of the girl's affection- 
ate nature. In fact. Miss Amelia Sedley was a young lady 
who deserved not only all that Miss Pinkerton said in her 
praise, but had many charming qualities which that pom- 
pous old woman could not see, from the differences of rank 
and age between her pupil and herself. She could not only 
sing like a lark, and dance divinely, and embroider beauti- 
fully, and spell as well as a " Dixonary " itself, but she had 
such a kindly, smiling, tender, gentle, generous heart of 
her own as won the love of everybody who came near her, 
from Miss Minerva herself down to the poor girl in the 
scullery and the one-eyed tart woman's daughter, who was 
permitted to vend her wares once a week to the young ladies 
in the Mall. She had twelve intimate and bosom friends 
out of the twenty-four young ladies. Even envious Miss 
Briggs never spoke ill of her: high and mighty Miss Sal- 
tire allowed that her figure was genteel; and as for Miss 
Swartz, the rich woolly-haired mulatto from St. Kitts, on 
the day Amelia went away she was in such a passion of 
tears that they were obliged to send for Dr. Floss, and 

145 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

half-tipsify her with salvolatile. Miss Pinkerton's attach- 
ment was, as may be supposed, from the high position and 
eminent virtues of that lady, calm and dignified; but Miss 
Jemima had already whimpered several times at the idea 
of Amelia's departure; and but for fear of her sister would 
have gone off in downright hysterics, like the heiress of St. 
Kitts. 

As Amelia Is not a heroine, there is no need to describe 
her person; indeed I am afraid that her nose was rather 
short than otherwise, and her cheeks a great deal too round 
and red for a heroine; but her face blushed with rosy 
health, and her lips with the freshest of smiles, and she 
had a pair of eyes which sparkled with the brightest and 
honestest good-humour, except indeed when they filled with 
tears, and that was a great deal too often ; for the silly thing 
would cry over a dead canary bird ; or over a mouse that 
the cat haply had seized upon; or over the end of a novel, 
were it ever so stupid; and as for saying an unkind word 
to her, were any persons hard-hearted enough to do so — 
why so much the worse for them. Even Miss Pinkerton, 
that austere woman, ceased scolding her after the first time, 
and, though she no more comprehended sensibility than 
she did capital Algebra, gave all masters and teachers par- 
ticular orders to treat Miss Sedley with the utmost gentle- 
ness, as harsh treatment was injurious to her. 

So that when the day of departure came, between her 
two customs of laughing and crying, Miss Sedley was 
greatly puzzled how to act. She was glad to go home, and 
yet most woefully sad at leaving school. For three days 
before, little Laura Martin, the orphan, followed her about 
like a little dog. She had to make and receive at least four- 
teen presents, to make fourteen solemn promises of writing 
every week. 

146 



BECKY SHARP AT SCHOOL 

" Send my letters under cover to my grandpa, the Earl 
of Dexter," said Miss Saltire. 

" Never mind the postage, but write every day, you dear 
darling/' said the impetuous and woolly-headed, but gen- 
erous and affectionate, Miss Schwartz; and little Laura 
Martin took her friend's hand and said, looking up in her 
face wistfully, " Amelia, when I write to you I shall call 
you mamma." 

All of these details, foolish and sentimental as they may 
seem, go to show the extreme popularity and personal charm 
of Amelia. 

Well then. The flowers, and the presents, and the trunks, 
and bonnet-boxes of Miss Sedley having been arranged by 
Mr. Sambo in the carriage, together with a very small and 
weather-beaten old cowskin trunk with Miss Sharp's card 
neatly nailed upon it, which was delivered by Sambo with 
a grin, and packed by the coachman with a corresponding 
sneer, the hour for parting came; and the grief of that 
moment was considerably lessened by the admirable dis- 
course which Miss Pinkerton addressed to her pupil. Not 
that the parting speech caused Amelia to philosophise, or 
that it armed her in any way with a calmness, the result of 
argument; but it was intolerably dull, and having the fear 
of her schoolmistress greatly before her eyes, Miss Sedley 
did not venture, in her presence, to give way to any ablu- 
tions of private grief. A seed-cake and a bottle of wine were 
produced in the drawing-room, as on the solemn occasions 
of the visits of parents, and these refreshments being par- 
taken of. Miss Sedley was at liberty to depart. 

" You'll go in and say good-bye to Miss Pinkerton, 
Becky!" said Miss Jemima to that young lady, of whom 
nobody took any notice, and who was coming downstairs 
with her own bandbox. 

147 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

" I suppose I must," said Miss Sharp calmly, and much 
to the wonder of Miss Jemima; and the latter, having 
knocked at the door, and receiving permission to come in. 
Miss Sharp advanced in a very unconcerned manner, and 
said in French, and with a perfect accent, ''Mademoiselle, 
je viens vous faire mes adieux/' 

Miss Pinkerton did not understand French, as we know; 
she only directed those who did; but biting her lips and 
throwing up her venerable and Roman-nosed head, she 
said: " Miss Sharp, I wish you a good-morning." As she 
spoke, she waved one hand, both by way of adieu and to 
give Miss Sharp an opportunity of shaking one of the fin- 
gers of the hand, which was left out for that purpose. 

Miss Sharp only folded her own hands with a very frigid 
smile and bow, and quite declined to accept the proffered 
honour; on which Miss Pinkerton tossed up her turban 
more indignantly than ever. In fact, it was a little battle 
between the young lady and the old one, and the latter was 
worsted. " Heaven bless you, my child," she exclaimed, 
embracing Amelia, and scowling the while over the girl's 
shoulder at Miss Sharp. 

" Come away, Becky," said Miss Jemima, pulling the 
young woman away in great alarm, and the drawing-room 
door closed upon them forever. 

Then came the struggle and parting below. Words re- 
fuse to tell it. All the servants were there in the hall — all 
the dear friends — all the young ladies — even the dancing 
master, who had just arrived; and there was such a scuf- 
fling, and hugging, and kissing, and crying, with the hys- 
terical yoops of Miss Schv/artz, the parlour boarder, from 
her room, as no pen can depict, and as the tender heart 
would feign pass over. The embracing was over; they 
parted — that is, Miss Sedley parted from her friends. Miss 

148 



BECKY SHARP AT SCHOOL 

Sharp had demurely entered the carriage some minutes 
before. Nobody cried for leaving her. 

Sambo of the bandy legs slammed the carriage door on 
his young weeping mistress. He sprang up behind the car- 
riage. 

" Stop! " cried Miss Jemima, rushing to the gate with a 
parcel. 

" It's some sandwiches, my dear," she called to Amelia. 
"You may be hungry, you know; . . . and Becky — 
Becky Sharp — here's a book for you, that my sister — that is, 
I — Johnson's Dixonary, you know; . . . you mustn't 
leave us without that! Good-bye! Drive on, coachman! — 
God bless you! " 

And the kind creature retreated into the garden, over- 
come with emotion. 

But, lo! and just as the coach drove off, Miss Sharp sud- 
denly put her pale face out of the window, and flung the 
book back into the garden — flung it far and fast — watching 
it fall at the feet of astonished Miss Jemima; then sank 
back in the carriage, exclaiming: " So much for the ' Dix- 
onary '; and, thank God, I am out of Chiswick! " 

The shock of such an act almost caused Jemima to faint 
with terror. 

" Well, I never " she began. " What an auda- 
cious " she gasped. Emotion prevented her from 

completing either sentence. 

The carriage rolled away; the great gates were closed; 
the bell rang for the dancing lesson. The world is before 
the two young ladies; and so, farewell to Chiswick Mall. 



149 



CUFF'S FIGHT WITH 
"FIGS" 



151 



CUFF'S FIGHT WITH 
"FIGS" 



CUFF'S fight with Figs, and the unexpected issue 
of that contest, will long be remembered by every 
man who was educated at Dr. Swishtail's fa- 
mous school. The latter youth (who used to 
be called Heigh-ho Dobbin, Gee-ho Dobbin, 
Figs, and by many other names indicative of puerile con- 
tempt) was the quietest, the clumsiest, and, as it seemed, 
the dullest of all Dr. Swishtail's young gentlemen. His 
parent was a grocer in the city: and it was bruited abroad 
that he was admitted into Dr. Swishtail's academy upon 
what are called " mutual principles " — that is to say, the 
expenses of his board and schooling were defrayed by his 
father in goods, not money; and he stood there — almost 
at the bottom of the school — in his scraggy corduroys and 
jacket, through the seams of which his great big bones were 
bursting, as the representative of so many pounds of tea, 
candles, sugar, mottled-soap, plums (of which a very mild 
proportion was supplied for the puddings of the estab- 
lishment), and other commodities. A dreadful day it was 
for young Dobbin when one of the youngsters of the school, 
having run into the town upon a poaching excursion for 
hardbake and polonies, espied the cart of Dobbin & Rudge, 
Grocers and Oilmen, Thames Street, London, at the Doc- 

^S3 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

tor's door, discharging a cargo of the wares in which the 
firm dealt. 

Young Dobbin had no peace after that. The jokes were 
frightful and merciless against him. 

" Hullo, Dobbin," one wag would say, " here's good news 
in the paper. Sugar is ris', my boy." 

Another would set a sum — " If a pound of mutton-can- 
dles cost sevenpence-halfpenny, how much must Dobbin 
cost? " and a roar would follow from all the circle of young 
knaves, usher and all, who rightly considered that the sell- 
ing of goods by retail is a shameful and infamous practice, 
meriting the contempt and scorn of all real gentlemen. 

" Your father's only a merchant, Osborne," Dobbin said 
in private to the little boy who had brought down the storm 
upon him. At which the latter replied haughtily, " My 
father's a gentleman, and keeps his carriage;" and Mr. 
William Dobbin retreated to a remote out-house in the play- 
ground, where he passed a half-holiday in the bitterest sad- 
ness and woe. 

Now, William Dobbin, from an incapacity to acquire the 
rudiments of the Latin language, as they are propounded 
in that wonderful book, the Eton Latin Grammar, was 
compelled to remain among the very last of Dr. Swishtail's 
scholars, and was " taken down " continually by little fel- 
lows with pink faces and pinafores when he marched up 
with the lower form, a giant amongst them, with his down- 
cast, stupefied look, his dog's-eared primer, and his tight 
corduroys. High and low, all made fun of him. They 
sewed up those corduroys, tight as they were. They cut his 
bed-springs. They upset buckets and benches, so that he 
might break his shins over them, which he never failed to 
do. They sent him parcels, which, when opened, were 
found to contain the paternal soap and candles. There was 

154 



CUFF'S FIGHT WITH FIGS 

no little fellow but had his jeer and joke at Bobbin; and 
he bore everything quite patiently, and was entirely dumb 
and miserable. 

Cuff, on the contrary, was the great chief and dandy of 
the Swishtail Seminary. He smuggled wine in. He fought 
the town-boys. Ponies used to come for him to ride home 
on Saturdays. He had his top-boots in his room in which 
he used to hunt in the holidays. He had a gold repeater, 
and took snuff like the Doctor. He had been to the Opera, 
and knew the merits of the principal actors, preferring Mr. 
Kean to Mr. Kemble. He could knock you ofT forty Latin 
verses in an hour. He could make French poetry. What 
else didn't he know, or couldn't he do? They said even 
the Doctor himself was afraid of him. 

Cuff, the unquestioned king of the school, ruled over his 
subjects, and bullied them, with splendid superiority. This 
one blacked his shoes, that toasted his bread, others would 
fag out, and give him balls at cricket during whole summer 
afternoons. Figs was the fellow whom he despised most, 
and with whom, though always abusing him, and sneering 
at him, he scarcely ever condescended to hold personal 
communication. 

One day in private the two young gentlemen had had a 
difference. Figs, alone in the school-room, was blundering 
over a home letter, when Cuff, entering, bade him go upon, 
some message, of which tarts were probably the subject. ' 

" I can't," says Dobbin; " I want to finish my letter." 

"You can't?" says Mr. Cuff, laying hold of that docu- 
ment (in which many words were scratched out, many were 
misspelt, on which had been spent I don't know how much 
thought, and labour, and tears; for the poor fellow was 
writing to his mother, who was fond of him, although she 
was a grocer's wife, and lived in a back parlour in Thames 

155 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

Street). " You cant? " says Mr. Cuff. " I should like to 
know why, pray? Can't you write to old Mother Figs to- 
morrow? " 

" Don't call names," Dobbin said, getting off the bench, 
very nervous. 

" Well, sir, will you go? " crowed the cock of the school. 

" Put down the letter," Dobbin replied; " no gentleman 
readth letterth." 

" Well, now will you go? " says the other. 

"No, I won't. Don't strike, or I'll thmash you," roars 
out Dobbin, springing to a leaden inkstand, and looking so 
wicked that Mr. Cuff paused, turned down his coat sleeves 
again, put his hands into his pockets, and walked away with 
a sneer. But he never meddled personally with the grocer's 
boy after that; though we must do him the justice to say he 
always spoke of Mr. Dobbin with contempt behind his 
back. 

Some time after this interview it happened that Mr. 
Cuff, on a sunshiny afternoon, was in the neighbourhood of 
poor William Dobbin, who was lying under a tree in the 
playground, spelling over a favourite copy of the " Arabian 
Nights " which he had — apart from the rest of the school, 
who were pursuing their various sports — quite lonely, and 
almost happy. 

Well, William Dobbin had for once forgotten the world, 
and was away with Sindbad the Sailor in the Valley of 
Diamonds, or with Prince Ahmed and the Fairy Peribanou 
in that delightful cavern where the Prince found her, and 
whither we should all like to make a tour, when shrill cries, 
as of a little fellow weeping, woke up his pleasant reverie, 
and, looking up, he saw Cuff before him, belabouring a 
little boy. 

It was the lad who had peached upon him about the 

156 



CUFF'S FIGHT WITH FIGS 

grocer's cart, but he bore little malice, not at least towards 
the young and small. " How dare you, sir, break the bot- 
tle?" says Cuff to the little urchin, swinging a yellow 
cricket-stump over him. 

The boy had been instructed to get over the playground 
wall (at a selected spot where the broken glass had been 
removed from the top, and niches made convenient in the 
brick), to run a quarter of a mile, to purchase a pint of 
rum-shrub on credit, to brave all the Doctor's outlying 
spies, and to clamber back into the playground again; dur- 
ing the performance of which feat his foot had slipped, and 
the bottle broken, and the shrub had been spilt, and his 
pantaloons had been damaged, and he appeared before his 
employer a perfectly guilty and trembling, though harm- 
less, wretch. 

" How dare you, sir, break it? " says Cuff; " you blunder- 
ing little thief. You drank the shrub, and now you pretend 
to have broken the bottle. Hold out your hand, sir." 

Down came the stump with a great heavy thump on the 
child's hand. A moan followed. Dobbin looked up. The 
Fairy Peribanou had fled into the inmost cavern with Prince 
Ahmed; the Roc had whisked away Sindbad, the Sailor, 
out of the Valley of Diamonds, out of sight, far into the 
clouds; and there was every-day life before honest Wil- 
liam; and a big boy beating a little one without cause. 

" Hold out your other hand, sir," roars Cuff to his little 
school-fellow, whose face was distorted with pain. Dobbin 
quivered, and gathered himself up in his narrow old clothes. 

" Take that, you little devil! " cried Mr. Cuff, and down 
came the wicket again on the child's hand. Down came 
the wicket again, and Dobbin started up. 

I can't tell what his motive was. Perhaps his foolish 
soul revolted against that exercise of tyranny, or perhaps he 

157 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

had a hankering feeling of revenge in his mind, and longed 
to measure himself against that splendid bully and tyrant, 
who had all the glory, pride, pomp, circumstance, banners 
flying, drums beating, guards saluting, in the place. What- 
ever may have been his incentive, however, up he sprang, 
and screamed out, " Hold off, Cuff; don't bully that child 
any more, or I'll " 

" Or you'll what? " Cuff asked in amazement at this in- 
terruption. " Hold out your hand, you little beast." 

" I'll give you the worst thrashing you ever had in your 
life," Dobbin said, in reply to the first part of Cufif's sen- 
tence; and the little lad, Osborne, gasping and in tears, 
looked up with wonder and incredulity at seeing this amaz- 
ing champion put up suddenly to defend him, while Cufif's 
astonishment was scarcely less. Fancy our late monarch 
George III., when he heard of the revolt of the North 
American colonies; fancy brazen Goliath when little David 
stepped forward and claimed a meeting; and 3^ou have the 
feeling of Mr. Reginald Cufif when this encounter was pro- 
posed to him. 

" After school," says he, " of course," after a pause and a 
look, as much as to say, " Make your will, and communicate 
your last wishes to your friends between this time and that." 

" As you please," Dobbin said. " You must be my bottle- 
holder, Osborne." 

"Well, if you like," little Osborne replied; for you see 
his papa kept a carriage, and he was rather ashamed of his 
champion. 

Yes, when the hour of battle came he was almost ashamed 
to say, "Go it. Figs"; and not a single other boy in the 
place uttered that cry for the first two or three rounds of 
this famous combat; at the commencement of which the 
scientific Cufif, with a contemptuous smile on his face, and 

158 



CUFF'S FIGHT WITH FIGS 

as light and as gay as if he was at a ball, planted his blows 
upon his adversary, and floored that unlucky champion 
three times running. At each fall there was a cheer, and 
everybody was anxious to have the honour of ofifering the 
conqueror a knee. 

" What a licking I shall get when it's over," young Os- 
borne thought, picking up his man. " You'd best give in," 
he said to Dobbin; "it's only a thrashing, Figs, and you 
know I'm used to it." But Figs, all whose limbs were in 
a quiver, and whose nostrils were breathing rage, put his 
little bottle-holder aside, and went in for a fourth time. 

As he did not in the least know how to parry the blows 
that were aimed at himself, and Cuff had begun the attack 
on the three preceding occasions without ever allowing his 
enemy to strike, Figs now determined that he would com- 
m.ence the engagement by a charge on his own part; and, 
accordingly, being a left-handed man, brought that arm into 
action, and hit out a couple of times with all his might — 
once at Mr. Cufl's left eye, and once on his beautiful Roman 
nose. 

Cuff went down this time, to the astonishment of the 
assembly. " Well hit, by Jove," says little Osborne, with 
the air of a connoisseur, clapping his man on the back. 
" Give it to him with the left. Figs, my boy." 

Figs's left made terrific play during all the rest of the 
combat. Cufif went down every time. At the sixth round 
there were almost as many fellows shouting out, " Go it, 
Figs," as there were youths exclaiming, " Go it, Cufif." 
At the twelfth round the latter champion was all abroad, 
as the saying is, and had lost all presence of mind and power 
of attack or defence. Figs, on the contrary, was as calm 
as a Quaker. His face being quite pale, his eyes shining 
open, and a great cut on his under lip bleeding profusely, 

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BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

gave this young fellow a fierce and ghastly air, which per- 
haps struck terror into many spectators. Nevertheless, his 
intrepid adversary prepared to close for the thirteenth time. 

If I had the pen of a Napier, or a Bell's Life, I should 
like to describe this combat properly. It was the last charge 
of the Guard — (that is, it "would have been, only Waterloo 
had not yet taken place) ; it was Ney's column breasting 
the hill of La Haye Sainte, bristling with ten thousand 
bayonets, and crowned with twenty eagles; it was the shout 
of the beef-eating British, as, leaping down the hill, they 
rushed to hug the enemy in the savage arms of battle; in 
other words. Cuff, coming up full of pluck, but quite reel- 
ing and groggy, the Fig-merchant put in his left as usual 
on his adversary's nose, and sent him down for the last time. 

" I think that will do for him," Figs said, as his opponent 
dropped. as neatly on the green as I have seen Jack Spot's 
ball plump into the pocket at billiards; and the fact is, 
when time was called, Mr. Reginald Cufif was not able, or 
did not choose, to stand up again. 

And now all the boys set up such a shout for Figs as would 
have made you think he had been their darling champion 
through the whole battle; and as absolutely brought Dr. 
Swishtail out of his study, curious to know the cause of 
the uproar. He threatened to flog Figs violently, of course; 
but Cufif, who had come to himself by this time, and was 
washing his wounds, stood up and said, " It's my fault, sir 
— not Figs's — not Dobbin's. I was bullying a little boy; 
and he served me right." By which magnanimous speech 
he not only saved his conqueror a whipping, but got back 
all his ascendancy over the boys which his defeat had nearly 
cost him. 

Young Osborne wrote home to his parents an account of 
the transaction: 

1 60 



CUFFS FIGHT WITH FIGS 

Sugarcane House, Richmond, March i8 — 
Dear Mamma: I hope you are quite well. I should be much obliged 
to you to send me a cake and five shillings. There has been a fight here 
between Cuff & Dobbin. Cuff, you know, was the Cock of the School. 
They fought thirteen rounds, and Dobbin Licked. So Cuff is now Only 
Second Cock. The fight was about me. Cuff was licking me for break- 
ing a bottle of milk, and Figs wouldn't stand it. We call him Figs 
because his father is a Grocer — Figs & Rudge, Thames St., City. I 
think as he fought for me you ought to buy your Tea & Sugar at his 
father's. Cuff goes home every Saturday, but can't this, because he has 
2 Black Eyes. He has a white Pony to come and fetch him, and a groom 
and livery on a bay mare. I wish my Papa would let me have a Pony, 
and I am 

Your dutiful Son, 

George Sedley Osborne. 

p,S. — Give my love to little Emmy. I am cutting her out a Coach in 
card-board. Please not a seed-cake, but a plum-cake. 

In consequence of Dobbin's victory, his character rose 
prodigiously in the estimation of all his school fellows, and 
the name of Figs, which had been a byword of reproach, 
became as respectable and popular a nickname as any other 
in use in the school. " After all, it's not his fault that his 
father's a grocer," George Osborne said, who, though a 
little chap, had a very high popularity among the Swish- 
tail youth; and his opinion was received with great ap- 
plause. It was voted low to sneer at Dobbin about this 
accident of birth. " Old Figs " grew to be a name of kind- 
ness and endearment, and the sneak of an usher jeered at him 
no longer. 

And Dobbin's spirit rose with his altered circumstances. 
He made wonderful advances in scholastic learning. The 
superb Cuff himself, at whose condenscension Dobbin could 
only blush and wonder, helped him on with his Latin verses, 
" coached " him in play-hours, carried him triumphantly 

i6i 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

out of the little-boy class into the middle-sized form, and 
even there got a fair place. for him. It was discovered that, 
although dull at classical learning, at mathematics he was 
uncommonly quick. To the contentment of all he passed 
third in Algebra, and got a French prize-book at the public 
Midsummer examination. You should have seen his 
mother's face when Telemaque (that delicious romance) 
was presented to him by the Doctor in the face of the whole 
school and the parents and company, with an inscription to 
Guielmo Dobbin. All the boys clapped hands in token 
of applause and sympathy. His blushes, his stumbles, his 
awkwardness, and the number of feet which he crushed as 
he went back to his place, who shall describe or calculate? 
Old Dobbin, his father, who now respected him for the 
first time, gave him two guineas publicly; most of which 
he spent in a general tuck-out for the school: and he came 
back in a tail-coat after the holidays. 

Dobbin was much too modest a young fellow to suppose 
that this happy change in all his circumstances arose from 
his own generous and manly disposition; he chose, from 
some perverseness, to attribute his good fortune to the sole 
agency and benevolence of little George Osborne, to whom 
henceforth he vowed such a love and affection as is only felt 
by children, an affection as we read of in the charming 
fairy-book, which uncouth Orson had for splendid young 
Valentine, his conqueror. He flung himself down at little 
Osborne's feet, and loved him. Even before they were ac- 
quainted, he had admired Osborne in secret. Now he was 
his valet, his dog, his man Friday. He believed Osborne 
to be the possessor of every perfection, to be the handsomest, 
the bravest, the most active, the cleverest, the most generous 
of boys. He shared his money with him, bought him un- 
countable presents of knives, pencil cases, gold seals, toffee, 

162 



CUFF'S FIGHT WITH FIGS 

little warblers, and romantic books, with large coloured pic- 
tures of knights and robbers, in many of which latter you 
might read inscriptions to George Sedley Osborne, Esquire, 
from his attached friend William Dobbin — which tokens 
of homage George received very graciously, as became his 
superior merit, as often and as long as they were proffered 
him. 

In after years Dobbin's father, the despised grocer, be- 
came Alderman, and Colonel of the City Light Horse, in 
which corps George Osborne's father was but an indifferent 
Corporal. Colonel Dobbin was knighted by his sovereign, 
which honour placed his son William in a social position 
above that of the old school friends who had once been so 
scornful of him at Swishtail Academy; even above the 
object of his deepest admiration, George Osborne. 

But this did not in the least alter honest, simple-minded 
William Dobbin's feelings, and his adoration for young 
Osborne remained unchanged. The two entered the army 
in the same regiment, and served together, and Dobbin's 
attachment for George was as warm and loyal then as when 
they were school-boys together. 

Honest William Dobbin, — I would that there were more 
such staunch comrades as you to answer to the name of 
friend 1 



163 



GEORGE OSBORNE— 
RAWDON CRAWLEY 



165 



■?<' 




i^x 



George Osborne and Rawdon Crawley. 




GEORGE OSBORNE— 
RAWDON CRAWLEY 



EBECCA SHARP, the teacher of French at Miss 
Pinkerton's Academy for young ladies, and in- 
timate friend of Miss Amelia Sedley, the most 
popular scholar in Miss Pinkerton's select estab- 
lishment, left the institution at the same time to 
become a governess in the family of Sir Pitt Crawley. 
Amelia was the only daughter of John Sedley, a wealthy 
London stock broker, and upon leaving school was to take 
her place in fashionable society. Being the sweetest, most 
kind-hearted girl in the world, Amelia invited Becky to 
visit her in London before taking up her new duties as 
governess; which invitation Becky was only too glad to 
accept. 

Now, Miss Sharp was in no way like the gentle Amelia, 
but as keen, brilliant, and selfish a young person of eighteen 
as ever schemed to have events turn to her advantage. 
These characteristics she showed so plainly while visiting 
at the Sedleys' that she left anything but a good impression 
behind her. In fact, her visit was cut short because of some 
unpleasant circumstances connected with her behaviour. 

From that time she and Amelia did not meet for many 
months, during which Amelia had become the wife of 
George Osborne, and Rebecca Sharp had married Rawdon 
Crawley, son of Sir Pitt Crawley, Baronet. 

167 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

The circumstances of Amelia's life during these months 
altered greatly, for shortly after she left school honest John 
Sedley met with such severe losses that his family were 
obliged to live in a much more modest way than formerly. 
Because of this misfortune, the course of Amelia's love af- 
fair with young Lieutenant Osborne did not run smoothly; 
for his father was far too ambitious to consent to his only 
son's marriage with the daughter of a ruined man, although 
John Sedley was his son's godfather, and George had been 
devoted to Amelia since early boyhood. 

Lieutenant Osborne therefore went away with his regi- 
ment, and poor little Amelia was left behind, to pine and 
mourn until it seemed there was no hope of saving her life 
unless happiness should speedily come to her. Then it was 
that Major Dobbin, George Osborne's staunch friend of 
schooldays, and also an ardent admirer of Amelia's, saw how 
she was grieving and took upon himself to inform George 
Osborne of the state of affairs. The young lieutenant came 
hurrying home just in time to save a gentle little heart from 
wearing itself away with sorrowing, and married Amelia 
without his father's consent. This so enraged the old gen- 
tleman that he refused to have his name mentioned in the 
home where the boy had grown up; the veriest tyrant and 
idol of his sisters and father. 

To Brighton George and Amelia went on their honey- 
moon, and there they met Becky Sharp and her husband. 
Though the circumstances of the two young women's career 
had altered, Amelia and Becky were unchanged in charac- 
ter, but that is of small concern to us, except as it affects 
their children, to whose lives we now turn with keen interest, 
noting how they reflect the dispositions, and are affected by 
the characters of their mothers. 

As for little Rawdon Crawley, Becky's only child, he had 

i68 



GEORGE OSBORNE — RAWDON CRAWLEY 

few early happy recollections of his mother. She had not, 
to say the truth, seen much of the young gentleman since 
his birth. After the amiable fashion of French mothers, 
she had placed him out at nurse in a village in the neigh- 
bourhood of Paris, where little Rawdon lived, not unhap- 
pily, with a numerous family of foster brothers in wooden 
shoes. His father, who was devotedly attached to the little 
fellow, would ride over many a time to see him here, and 
the elder Rawdon's paternal heart glowed to see him rosy 
and dirty, shouting lustily, and happy in the making of 
mud-pies under the superintendence of the gardener's wife, 
his nurse. 

Rebecca, however, did not care much to go and see her 
son and heir, who as a result preferred his nurse's caresses 
to his mamma's, and when finally he quitted that jolly nurse, 
he cried loudly for hours. He was only consoled by his 
mother's promise that he should return to his nurse the 
next day; which promise, it is needless to say, was not kept; 
instead the boy was consigned to the care of a French maid, 
Genevieve, while his mother was seldom with him, and the 
French woman was so neglectful of her young charge that 
at one time he very narrowly escaped drowning on Calais 
sands, where Genevieve had left and lost him. 

So with little care and less love his childhood passed until 
presently he went with his father and mother. Colonel and 
Mrs. Crawley, to London, to their new home in Curzon 
Street, Mayfair. There little Rawdon's time was mostly 
spent hidden upstairs in a garret somewhere, or crawling 
below into the kitchen for companionship. His mother 
scarcely ever took notice of him. He passed the days with 
his French nurse as long as she remained in the family, 
and when she went away, a housemaid took compassion on 
the little fellow, who was howling in the loneliness of the 

169 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

night, and got him out of his solitary nursery into her bed 
in the garret and comforted him. 

Rebecca, her friend, my Lord Steyne, and one or two 
more were in the drawing-room taking tea after the opera, 
when this shouting was heard overhead. " It's my cherub 
crying for his nurse," said his mother, who did not offer to 
move and go and see the child. " Don't agitate your feelings 
by going to look after him," said Lord Steyne sardonically. 
"Bah!" exclaimed Becky, with a sort of blush. "He'll 
cry himself to sleep " ; and they fell to talking about the 
opera. 

Mr. Rawdon Crawley had stolen off, however, to look 
after his son and heir; and came back to the company when 
he found that honest Dolly was consoling the child. The 
Colonel's dressing-room was in those upper regions. He 
used to see the boy there in private. They had interviews to- 
gether every morning when he shaved; Rawdon minor sit- 
ting on a box by his father's side, and watching the operation 
with never-ceasing pleasure. He and the sire were great 
friends. The father would bring him sweet-meats from 
the dessert, and hide them in a certain old epaulet box 
where the child went to seek them, and laughed with joy 
on discovering the treasure; laughed, but not too loud; for 
mamma was asleep and must not be disturbed. She did 
not go to rest until very late, and seldom rose until after- 
noon. 

His father bought the boy plenty of picture books, and 
crammed his nursery with toys. Its walls were covered 
with pictures pasted up by the father's own hand. He 
passed hours with the boy, who rode on his chest, pulled 
his great moustaches as if they were driving reins, and spent 
days with him in indefatigable gambols. The room was a 
low one, and once, when the child was not five years old, 

170 



GEORGE OSBORNE — RAWDON CP.AWLEY 

his father, who was tossing him wildly up in his arms, hit 
the poor little chap's scull so violently against the ceihng 
that he almost dropped him, so terrified was he at the dis- 
aster. 

Rawdon minor had made up his face for a tremendous 
howl, but just as he was going to begin, the father inter- 
posed. 

" For God's sake, Rawdy, don't wake mamma," he cried. 
And the child, looking in a very hard and piteous way at his 
father, bit his lips, clenched his hands, and didn't cry a bit. 
Rawdon told that story at the clubs, at the mess, to every- 
body in town. " By Gad, sir," he explained to the public 
in general, " what a good plucky one that boy of mine is. 
What a trump he is! I half sent his head through the ceil- 
ing, and he wouldn't cry for fear of disturbing mother! " 

Sometimes, once or twice in a week, that lady visited the 
upper regions in which the child lived. She came like a 
vivified picture, blandly smiling in the most beautiful new 
clothes and little gloves and boots. Wonderful scarfs, laces, 
and jewels glittered about her. She had always a new bon- 
net on; and flowers bloomed perpetually in it, or else mag- 
nificent curling ostrich feathers, soft and snowy as camel- 
lias. She nodded twice or thrice patronisingly to the little 
boy, who looked up from his dinner or from the pictures of 
soldiers he was painting. When she left the room, an odour 
of rose, or some other magical fragrance, lingered about the 
nursery. She was an unearthly being in his eyes, superior 
to his father, to all the world, to be worshipped and admired 
at a distance. To drive with that lady in a carriage was an 
awful rite. He sat in the back seat, and did not dare to 
speak; he gazed with all his eyes at the beautifully dressed 
princess opposite to him. Gentlemen on splendid prancing 
horses came up, and smiled and talked with her. How her 

171 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

eyes beamed upon all of them! Her hand used to quiver 
and wave gracefully as they passed. When he went out 
with her he had his new red dress on. His old brown hol- 
land was good enough when he stayed at home. Sometimes, 
when she was away, and Dolly the maid was making his 
bed, he came into his mother's room. It was as the abode 
of a fairy to him — a mystic chamber of splendour and de- 
light. There in the wardrobe hung those wonderful robes 
■ — pink and blue and many-tinted. There was the jewel 
case, silver clasped; and a hundred rings on the dressing 
table. There was a cheval glass, that miracle of art, in 
which he could just see his own wondering head, and the 
reflection of Dolly, plumping and patting the pillows of 
the bed. Poor lonely little benighted boy! Mother is the 
name for God in the lips and hearts of little children; and 
here was one who was worshipping a stone! 

His father used to take him out of mornings, when they 
would go to the stables together and to the park. Little 
Lord Southdown, the best natured of men, who would make 
you a present of a hat from his head, and whose main oc- 
cupation in life was to buy nicknacks that he might give 
them away afterwards, bought the little chap a pony, not 
much bigger than a large rat, and on this little black 
Shetland pony young Rawdon's great father would mount 
the boy, and walk by his side in the Park. 

One Sunday morning as Rawdon Crawley, his little son, 
and the pony were taking their accustomed walk, they 
passed an old acquaintance of the Colonel's, Corporal Clink, 
who was in conversation with an old gentleman, who held 
a boy in his arms about the age of little Rawdon. The other 
youngster had seized hold of the Waterloo medal which 
the Corporal wore, and was examining it with delight. 

" Good-morning, your honour," said Clink, in reply to 

172 



GEORGE OSBORNE — RAWDON CRAWLEY 

the " How do, Clink? " of the Colonel. " This 'ere young 
gentleman is about the little Colonel's age, sir," continued 
the Corporal. 

" His father was a Waterloo man, too," said the old gen- 
tleman who carried the boy. "Wasn't he, Georgie?" 

" Yes, sir," said Georgie. He and the little chap on the 
pony were looking at each other with all their might, sol- 
emnly scanning each other as children do. 

" His father was a captain in the th regiment," said 

the old gentleman rather pompously. " Captain George 
Osborne, sir — perhaps you knew him. He died the death 
of a hero, sir, fighting against the Corsican tyrant." 

" I knew him very well, sir," said Colonel Crawley, " and 
his wife, his dear little wife, sir — how is she? " 

" She is my daughter, sir," said the old gentleman proudly, 
putting down the boy, and taking out his card, which he 
handed to the Colonel, while little Georgie went up and 
looked at the Shetland pony. 

" Should you like to have a ride? " said Rawdon minor 
from the saddle. 

" Yes," said Georgie. The Colonel, who had been look- 
ing at him with some interest, took up the child and put him 
on the pony behind Rawdon minor, 

"Take hold of him, Georgie," he said; "take my little 
boy around the waist; his name is Rawdon." And both 
the children began to laugh. 

" You won't see a prettier pair, I think, this summer's 
day, sir," said the good-natured Corporal; and the Colonel, 
the Corporal, and old Mr. Sedley, with his umbrella, 
walked by the side of the children, who enjoyed each other 
and the pony enormously. In later years they often talked 
of that first meeting. 

But this is anticipating our story, for between the time of 

173 



w 

■r 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

their first ride together, and the time when circumstances 
brought them together again, the little chaps saw nothing of 
one another for a number of years, during which the in- 
cidents of their lives differed as widely as did the lives 
of their parents. 

About the time when the little boys first met, Sir Pitt 
Crawley, Baronet, father of Pitt and Rawdon Crawley, 
died, and Rebecca and her husband hastened to Queen's 
Crawley, the old family home, where Rebecca had once 
been governess, to shed a last tear over the departed Baronet. 
Rebecca was not bowed down with grief, we must confess, 
but keenly alive to the benefits which might come to herself 
and Rawdon if she could please Sir Pitt Crawley, the new 
Baronet, and Lady Jane his wife, a simple-minded woman 
mostly absorbed in the affairs of her nursery. This interest 
aroused Becky's private scorn, but the first thing that clever 
little lady did was to attack Lady Jane at her vulnerable 
point. After being conducted to the apartments prepared 
for her, a;id having taken off her bonnet and cloak, Becky 
asked her sister-in-law in what more she could be useful. 

" What I should like best," she added, " would be to see 
your dear little nursery," at which the two ladies looked 
very kindly at each other, and went to the nursery hand in 
hand. 

Becky admired little Matilda, who was not quite four 
years old, as the most charming little love in the world; and 
the boy, Pitt Blinkie Southdown, a little fellow of two years, 
pale, heavy-eyed, and large-headed, she pronounced to be 
a perfect prodigy in size, intelligence and beauty. 

The funeral over, Rebecca and her husband remained 
for a visit at Queen's Crawley, which assumed its wonted 
aspect. Rawdon senior received constant bulletins respect- 
ing little Rawdon, who was left behind in London, and sent 

174 



GEORGE OSBORNE — RAWDON CRAWLEY 

messages of his own. *' I am very well," he wrote. " I 
hope you are very well. I hope mamma is very well. The 
pony is very well. Grey takes me to ride in the Park. I 
can canter. I met the little boy who rode before. He cried 
when he cantered. I do not cry." 

Rawdon read these letters to his brother, and Lady Jane, 
who was delighted with them, gave Rebecca a banknote, 
begging her to buy a present with it for her little nephew. 

Like all other good things, the visit came to an end, and 
one night the London lamps flashed joyfully as the stage 
rolled into Piccadilly, and Briggs had made a beautiful fire 
on the hearth in Curzon Street, and little Rawdon was up to 
welcome back his papa and mamma. 

At this time he was a fine open-faced boy, with blue eyes 
and waving flaxen hair, sturdy in limb, but generous and soft 
in heart, fondly attaching himself to all who were good to 
him: to the pony, to Lord Southdown, who gave him the 
horse; to the groom who had charge of the pony; to Molly 
the cook, who crammed him with ghost stories at night 
and with good things from the dinner; to Briggs, his meek, 
devoted attendant, whom he plagued and laughed at; and 
to his father especially. Here, as he grew to be about eight 
years old, his attachment may be said to have ended. The 
beautiful mother vision had faded away after a while. Dur- 
ing nearly two years his mother had scarcely spoken to the 
child. She disliked him. He had the measles and the 
whooping cough. He bored her. One day when he was 
standing at the landing-place, having crept down from the 
upper regions, attracted by the sound of his mother's voice, 
who was singing to Lord Steyne, the drawing-room door 
opening suddenly discovered the little spy, who but a mo- 
ment before had been rapt in delight and listening to the 
music. 

175 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

His mother came out and struck him violently a couple 
of boxes on the ear. He heard a laugh from the Marquis 
in the inner room, and fled down below to his friends of the 
kitchen, bursting in an agony of grief. 

" It is not because it hurts me," little Rawdon gasped out, 

" only — only " sobs and tears wound up the sentence in 

a storm. It was the little boy's heart that was bleeding. 
" Why mayn't I hear her singing? Why don't she ever sing 
to me, as she does to that bald-headed man with the large 
teeth? " He gasped out at various intervals these exclama- 
tions of grief and rage. The cook looked at the housemaid; 
the housemaid looked knowingly at the footman, who all 
sat in judgment on Rebecca from that moment. 

After this incident the mother's dislike increased to ha- 
tred; the consciousness that the child was in the house was 
a reproach and a pain to her. His very sight annoyed her. 
Fear, doubt, and resistance sprang up too, in the boy's own 
bosom. 

He and his mother were separated from that day of the 
boxes on the ear. 

Lord Steyne also disliked the boy. When they met he 
made sarcastic bows or remarks to the child, or glared at 
him with savage-looking eyes. Rawdon used to stare him 
in the face and double his little fists in return. Had it not 
been for his father, the child would have been desolate 
indeed, in his own home. 

But an unexpected good time came to him a day or two 
before Christmas, when he was taken by his father and 
mother to pass the holidays at Queen's Crawley. Becky 
would have liked to leave him at home, but for Lady Jane's 
urgent invitation to the youngster; and the symptoms of 
revolt and discontent manifested by Rawdon at her neglect 
of her son. " He is the finest boy in England," the father 

176 



GEORGE OSBORNE — RAWDON CRAWLEY 

said reproachfully, " and you don't seem to care for him as 
much as you do for your spaniel. He shan't bother you 
much; at home he will be away from you in the nursery, 
and he shall go outside on the coach with me." 

So little Rawdon was wrapped up in shawls and comfort- 
ers for the winter's journey, and hoisted respectfully onto 
the roof of the coach in the dark morning; with no small 
delight watched the dawn arise, and made his first journey 
to the place which his father still called home. It was a 
journey of infinite pleasure to the boy, to whom the incidents 
of the road afforded endless interest; his father answering 
all questions connected with it, and telling him who lived 
in the great white house to the right, and whom the park 
belonged to. 

Presently the boy fell asleep, and it was dark when he was 
wakened up to enter his uncle's carriage at Mudbury, and 
he sat and looked out of it wondering as the great iron gates 
flew open, and at the white trunks of the limes as they swept 
by, until they stopped at length before the lighted windows 
of the Hall, which were blazing and comfortable with 
Christmas welcome. The hall-door was flung open; a big 
fire was burning in the great old fireplace, a carpet was 
down over the chequered black flags, and the next instant 
Becky was kissing Lady Jane. 

She and Sir Pitt performed the same salute with great 
gravity, while Sir Pitt's two children came up to their 
cousin. Matilda held out her hand and kissed him. Pitt 
Blinkie Southdown, the son and heir, stood aloof, and ex- 
amined him as a little dog does a big one. 

Then the kind hostess conducted her guests to snug apart- 
ments blazing with cheerful fires, and after some conversa- 
tion with the fine young ladies of the house, the great dinner 
bell having rung, the family assembled at dinner, at which 

177 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

meal Rawdon junior was placed by his aunt, and exhibited 
not only a fine appetite, but a gentlemanlike behaviour. 

" I like to dine here," he said to his aunt when he had 
completed his meal, at the conclusion of which, and after 
a decent grace by Sir Pitt, the younger son and heir was 
introduced and was perched on a high chair by the Baronet's 
side, while the daughter took possession of the place pre- 
pared for her, near her mother. " I like to dine here," said 
Rawdon minor, looking up at his relation's kind face. 

" Why? " said the good Lady Jane. 

" I dine in the kitchen when I am at home," replied 
Rawdon minor, " or else with Briggs." This honest con- 
fession was fortunately not heard by Becky, who was deep 
in conversation with the Baronet, or it might have been 
worse for little Rawdon. 

As a guest, and it being the first night of his arrival, he 
was allowed to sit up until the hour when, tea being over 
and a great gilt book being laid on the table before Sir 
Pitt, all the domestics of the family streamed in, and Sir 
Pitt read prayers. It was the first time the poor little boy 
had ever witnessed or heard of such a ceremonial. 

Queen's Crawley had been much improved since the 
young Baronet's brief reign, and was pronounced by Becky 
to be perfect, charming, delightful, when she surveyed it in 
his company. As for little Rawdon, who examined it with 
the children for his guides, it seemed to him a perfect palace 
of enchantment and wonder. There were long galleries, 
and ancient state bed-rooms; there were pictures and old 
china and armour which enchanted little Rawdon, who had 
never seen their like before, and who, poor child, had never 
before been in such an atmosphere of kindness and good 
cheer. 

On Christmas day a great family gathering took place, 

178 



GEORGE OSBORNE — RAWDON CRAWLEY 

and one and all agreed that little Rawdon was a fine boy. 
They respected a possible Baronet in the boy between whom 
and the title there was only the little sickly, pale Pitt 
Blinkie. 

The children were very good friends. Pitt Blinkie was 
too little a dog for such a big dog as Rawdon to play with, 
and Matilda, being only a girl, of course not fit companion 
for a young gentleman who was near eight years old, and 
going into jackets very soon. He took the command of this 
small party at once, the little girl and the little boy following 
him about with great reverence at such times as he conde- 
scended to sport with them. His happiness and pleasure in 
the country were extreme. The kitchen-garden pleased him 
hugely, the flowers moderately; but the pigeons and the 
poultry, and the stables, when he was allowed to visit them, 
were delightful objects to him. He resisted being kissed by 
the Misses Crawley; but he allowed Lady Jane sometimes 
to embrace him, and it was by her side that he liked to sit 
rather than by his mother. Rebecca, seeing that tenderness 
was the fashion, called Rawdon to her one evening, and 
stooped down and kissed him in the presence of all the 
ladies. 

He looked her full in the face after the operation, trem- 
bling and turning very red, as his wont was when moved. 
" You never kiss me at home. Mamma," he said; at which 
there was a general silence and consternation, and by no 
means a pleasant look in Becky's eyes; but she was obliged to 
allow the incident to pass in silence. 

But the greatest day of all was that on which Sir Hud- 
dlestone Fuddlestone's hounds met upon the lawn at Queen's 
Crawley. 

That was a famous sight for little Rawdon. At half-past 
ten Tom Moody, Sir Huddlestone Fuddlestone's huntsman, 

179 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

was seen trotting up the avenue, followed by the noble pack 
of hounds in a compact body, the rear being brought up by 
the two whips clad in stained scarlet frocks, light, hard- 
featured lads on well-bred lean horses, possessing marvellous 
dexterity in casting the points of their long, heavy whips at 
the thinnest part of any dog's skin who dared to straggle 
from the main body, or to take the slightest notice, or even 
so much as wink at the hares and rabbits starting under their 
noses. 

Next came boy Jack, Tom Moody's son, who weighed 
five stone, measured eight and forty inches, and would never 
be any bigger. He was perched on a large raw-boned 
hunter, half covered by a capacious saddle. This animal 
was Sir Huddlestone Fuddlestone's favourite horse, the 
Nob. Other horses ridden by other small boys arrived from 
time to time, awaiting their masters, who came cantering 
on anon. 

Tom Moody rode up presently, and he and his pack drew 
ofif into a sheltered corner of the lawn, where the dogs 
rolled on the grass, and played or growled angrily at one 
another, ever and anon breaking out into furious fights, 
speedily to be quelled by Tom's voice, unmatched at rating, 
or the snaky thongs of the whips. 

Many young gentlemen cantered up on thoroughbred 
hacks, spatter-dashed to the knee, and entered the house to 
pay their respects to the ladies, or, more modest and sports- 
manlike, divested themselves of their mud-boots, exchanged 
their hacks for their hunters, and warmed their blood by a 
preliminary gallop round the lawn. Then they collected 
round the pack in the corner, and talked with Tom Moody 
of past sport, and the merits of Sniveller and Diamond, 
and of the state of the country and of the wretched breed of 
foxes. 

1 80 



GEORGE OSBORNE — RAWDON CRAWLEY 

Sir Huddlestone presently appears mounted on a clever 
cob, and rides up to the Hall, where he enters and does the 
civil thing by the ladies, after which, being a man of few 
words, he proceeds to business. The hounds are drawn up 
to the hall-door, and little Rawdon descends among them, 
excited yet half alarmed by the caresses which they bestow 
upon him, at the thumps he receives from their waving 
tails, and at their canine bickerings, scarcely restrained by 
Tom Moody's tongue and lash. 

Meanwhile, Sir Huddlestone has hoisted himself un- 
wieldily on the Nob. " Let's try Sowster's Spinney, Tom," 
says the Baronet; " Farmer Mangle tells me there are two 
foxes in it." Tom blows his horn and trots ofif, followed by 
the pack, by the whips, by the young gents from Winchester, 
by the farmers of the neighbourhood, by the labourers of 
the parish on foot, with whom the day is a great holiday; 
Sir Huddlestone bringing up the rear with Colonel Craw- 
ley; and the whole train of hounds and horsemen disappears 
down the avenue, leaving little Rawdon alone on the door- 
steps, wondering and happy. 

During the progress of this memorable holiday little 
Rawdon, if he had got no special liking for his uncle, always 
aw^ful and cold, and locked up in his study, plunged in 
justice business and surrounded by bailiffs and farmers, 
has gained the good graces of his married and maiden 
aunts, of the two little folks of the Hall, and of Jim of the 
Rectory, and he had become extremely fond of Lady Jane, 
who told such beautiful stories with the children clustered 
about her knees. Naturally, after having his first glimpse of 
happy home life and his first taste of genuine motherly affec- 
tion, it was a sad day to little Rawdon when he was obliged 
to return to Curzon Street. But there was an unexpected 
pleasure awaiting him on his return. Lord Steyne, though 

i8i 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

he wasted no affection upon the boy, yet for reasons of his 
own concerning only himself and Mrs. Becky, extended 
his good will to little Rawdon. Wishing to have the boy 
out of his way, he pointed out to Rawdon's parents the ne- 
cessity of sending him to a public school ; that he was of an 
age now when emulation, the first principles of the Latin 
language, pugilistic exercises, and the society o.i his fellow 
boys would be of the greatest benefit to him. His father 
objected that he was not rich enough to send the child to 
a good school; his mother, that Briggs was a capital mis- 
tress for him, and had brought him on, as indeed was the 
fact, famously in English, Latin, and in general learning; 
but all these objections were overruled by the Marquis of 
Steyne. His lordship was one of the Governors of that 
famous old collegiate institution called the White Friars, 
where he desired that little Rawdon should be sent, and 
sent he was; for Rawdon Crawley, though the only book 
which he studied was the racing calendar, and though his 
, chief recollections of learning were connected with the flog- 
gings which he received at Eton in his early youth, had that 
reverence for classical learning which all English gentle- 
men feel, and was glad to think that his son was to have 
the chance of becoming a scholar. And although his boy 
was his chief solace and companion, he agreed at once to 
part with him for the sake of the welfare of the little lad. 
It was honest Briggs who made up the little kit for the 
boy which he was to take to school. Molly, the housemaid, 
blubbered in the passage when he went away. Mrs. Becky 
could not let her husband have the carriage to take the boy 
to school. Take the horses into the city! Such a thing was 
never heard of. Let a cab be brought. She did not offer to 
kiss him when he went, nor did the child propose to embrace 
her, but gave a kiss to old Briggs and consoled her by point- 

182 



GEORGE OSBORNE — RAWDON CRAWLEY 

ing out that he was to come home on Saturdays, when she 
would have the benefit of seeing him. As the cab rolled 
towards the city Becky's carriage rattled off to the park. She 
gave no thought to either of them when the father and son 
entered at the old gates of the school, where Rawdon left 
the child, then walked home very dismally, and dined alone 
with Briggs, to whom he was grateful for her love and 
watchfulness over the boy. They talked about little Raw- 
don a long time, and Mr. Crawley went off to drink tea with 
Lady Jane, who was very fond of Rawdon, as was her little 
girl, who cried bitterly when the time for her cousin's de- 
parture came. Rawdon senior now told Lady Jane how 
little Rawdon went off like a trump, and how he was to 
w^ear a gown and little knee breeches, and Jack Blackball's 
son of the old regiment had taken him in charge and prom- 
ised to be kind to him. 

The Colonel went to see his son a short time afterwards, 
and found the lad sufficiently well and happy, grinning 
and laughing in his little black gown and little breeches. 
As a protege of the great Lord Steyne, the nephew of a 
county member, and son of a Colonel and C. B. whose 
names appeared in some of the most fashionable parties in 
the Morning Post, perhaps the school authorities were dis- 
posed not to look unkindly on the child. 

He had plenty of pocket-money, which he spent in treat- 
ing his comrades royally to raspberry tarts, and he was often 
allowed to come home on Saturdays to his father, who al- 
ways made a jubilee of that day. When free, Rawdon 
would take him to the play, or send him thither with the 
footman; and on Sundays he went to church with Briggs 
and Lady Jane and his cousins. Rawdon marvelled over his 
stories about school, and fights, and fagging. Before long 
he knew the names of all the masters and the principal boys 

183 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKEP.AY 

as well as little Rawdon himself. He invited little Raw- 
don's crony from school and made both the children sick 
with pastry, and oysters, and porter after the play. He tried 
to look knowing over the Latin grammar when little Raw- 
don showed him what part of that work he was " in." 
" Stick to it, my boy," he said to him with much gravity, 
"there's nothing like a good classical education! Noth- 

ing!" 

While little Rawdon was still one of the fifty gown-boys 
of White Friar school, the Colonel, his poor father, got 
into great trouble through no fault of his own, but as a 
result of which Mrs. Becky was obliged to make her exit 
from Curzon Street forever, and the Colonel in bitter de- 
jection and humiliation accepted an appointment as Gov- 
ernor of Coventry Island. For some time he resisted the 
idea of taking this place, because it had been procured for 
him through the influence of Lord Steyne, whose patronage 
was odious to him, as he had been the means of ruining the 
Colonel's homelife. The Colonel's instinct also was for at 
once removing the boy from the school where Lord Steyne's 
interest had placed him. He was induced, however, not to 
do this, and little Rawden was allowed to round out his days 
in the school, where he was very happy. After his mother's 
departure from Curzon Street she disappeared entirely from 
her son's life, and never made any movement to see the child. 

He went home to his aunt. Lady Jane, for Sundays and 
holidays; and soon knew every bird's-nest about Queen's 
Crawley, and rode out with Sir Huddlestone's hounds, 
which he had admired so on his first well-remembered visit 
to the home of his ancestor. In fact, Rawdon was consigned 
to the entire guardianship of his aunt and uncle, to whom he 
was fortunately deeply devoted; and although he received 
several letters at various times from his mother, they made 

184 



GEORGE OSBORNE — RAWDON CRAWLEY 

little impression upon him, and indeed it was easy to see 
where his affections were placed. When Sir Pitt's only boy 
died of whooping-cough and measles — then Mrs. Becky 
wrote the most affectionate letter to her darling son, who was 
made heir of Queen's Crawley by this accident, and drawn 
more closely than ever by it to Lady Jane, whose tender 
heart had already adopted him. Rawdon Crawley, then 
grown a tall, fine lad, blushed when he got the letter. 

" Oh, Aunt Jane, you are my mother ! " he said ; " and not 
— and not that one! " But he wrote a kind and respectful 
letter in response to Mrs. Becky, and the incident was 
closed. As for the Colonel, he wrote to the boy regularly 
every mail from his post on Coventry Island, and little 
Rawdon used to like to get the papers and read about his 
Excellency, his father, of whom he had been truly fond. 
But the image gradually faded as the images of childhood 
do fade, and each year he grew more tenderly attached to 
Lady Jane and her husband, who had become father and 
mother to him in his hour of need. 

As for George Osborne, the little boy whom Rawdon 
Crawley had given a ride on his pony long years before, the 
fates had been much kinder to him than to Rawdon. He had 
had no lonely childhood, for although he had no recollection 
of his handsome young father, from baby days he was sur- 
rounded by the utmost adoration by a doting mother. Poor 
Amelia, deprived of the husband whom she adored, lav- 
ished all the pent-up love of her gentle bosom upon the 
little boy with the eyes of George who was gone — ^a little 
boy as beautiful as a cherub, and there was never a moment 
when the child missed any office which love or affection 
could give him. His grandfather Sedley also adored the 
child, and it was the old man's delight to take out his little 
grandson to the neighbouring parks of Kensington Gardens, 

185 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

to see the soldiers or to feed the ducks. Georgie loved the 
red coats, and his grandpapa told him how his father had 
been a famous soldier, and introduced him to many sergeants 
and others with Waterloo medals on their breasts, to whom 
the old grandfather pompously presented the child; as on 
the occasion of their meeting with Colonel Rawdon Craw- 
ley and his little son. 

Old Sedley was disposed to spoil little Georgie, sadly 
gorging the boy with apples and peppermint to the detri- 
ment of his health, until Amelia declared that Georgie 
should never go out with his grandpapa again unless the 
latter solemnly promised on his honour not to give the child 
any cakes, lollipops, or stall produce whatever. 

Amelia's days were full of active employment, for besides 
caring for Georgie, she devoted much time to her old father 
and mother, with whom she and the child lived, and who 
were much broken by their financial reverses. She also 
personally superintended her little son's education for sev- 
eral years. She taught him to read and to write, and a little 
to draw. She read books, in order that she might tell him 
stories. As his eyes opened, and his mind expanded, she 
taught him to the best of her humble power to acknowledge 
the Maker of All; and every night and every morning he 
and she — the mother and the little boy — prayed to our 
Father together, the mother pleading with all her gentle 
heart, the child lisping after her as she spoke. And each 
time they prayed to God to bless dear papa, as if he were 
alive and in the room with them. 

Besides her pension of fifty pounds a year, as an army 
officer's widow, there had been five hundred pounds left 
with the agent of her estate for her, for which Amelia did 
not know that she was indebted to Major Dobbin, until 
years later. This same Major, by the way, was stationed at 

i86 



GEORGE OSBORNE — RAWDON CRAWLEY 

Madras, where twice or thrice in the year she wrote to 
him about herself and the boy, and he in turn sent over 
endless remembrances to his godson and to her. He sent a 
box of scarfs, and a grand ivory set of chess-men from 
China. The pawns were little green and white men, with 
real swords and shields; the knights were on horseback, 
the castles were on the backs of elephants. These chess- 
men were the delight of Georgie's life, who printed his first 
letter of acknowledgment of this gift of his godpapa. Ma- 
jor Dobbin also sent over preserves and pickles, which latter 
the young gentleman tried surreptitiously in the sideboard, 
and half killed himself with eating. He thought it was a 
judgment upon him for stealing, they were so hot. Amelia 
wrote a comical little account of this mishap to the Major; 
it pleased him to think that her spirits were rallying, and 
that she could be merry sometimes now. He sent over a 
pair of shawls, a white one for her, and a black one with 
palm-leaves for her mother, and a pair of red scarfs, as 
winter wrappers, for old Mr. Sedley and George. The 
shawls were worth fifty guineas apiece, at the very least, 
as Mrs. Sedley knew. She wore hers in state at church at 
Brompton, and was congratulated by her female friends 
upon the splendid acquisition. Amelia's, too, became pret- 
tily her modest black gown. 

Amidst humble scenes and associates Georgie's early 
youth was passed, and the boy grew up delicate, sensitive, 
imperious, woman-bred — domineering over the gentle 
mother whom he loved with passionate affection. He ruled 
all the rest of the little world round about him. As he 
grew, the elders were amazed at his haughty manner and 
his constant likeness to his father. He asked questions about 
everything, as inquiring youth will do. The profundity of 
his remarks and questions astonished his old grandfather, 

187 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

who perfectly bored the club at the tavern with stories 
about the little lad's learning and genius. He suffered his 
grandmother with a good-humoured indifference. The 
small circle round about him believed that the equal of 
the boy did not exist upon the earth. Georgie inherited his 
father's pride, and perhaps thought they were not wrong. 

When he grew to be about six years old, Dobbin began to 
write to him very much. The Major wanted to hear that 
Georgie was going to a school, and hoped he would acquit 
himself with credit there; or would he have a good tutor 
at home? It was time that he should begin to learn; and 
his godfather and guardian hinted that he hoped to be 
allowed to defray the charges of the boy's education, which 
would fall heavily upon his mother's straitened income. 
The Major, in a word, was always thinking about Amelia 
and her little boy, and by orders to his agents kept the 
latter provided with picture-books, paint-boxes, desks, and 
all conceivable implements of amusement and instruction. 
Three days before Georgie's sixth birthday a gentleman in 
a gig, accompanied by a servant, drove up to Mrs. Sedley's 
house and asked to be conducted to Master George Osborne. 
It was Woolsey, military tailor, who came at the Major's 
order, to measure George for a suit of clothes. He had 
had the honour of making for the Captain, the young gen- 
tleman's father. 

Sometimes, too, the Major's sisters, the Misses Dobbin, 
would call in the family carriage to take Amelia and the 
little boy a drive. The patronage of these ladies was very 
uncomfortable to Amelia, but she bore it meekly enough, 
for her nature was to yield; and besides, the carriage and 
its splendours gave little Georgie immense pleasure. The 
ladies begged occasionally that the child might pass a day 
with them, and he was always glad to go to that fine villa 

i88 



GEORGE OSBORNE — RAWDON CRAWLEY 

on Denmark Hill, where there were such fine grapes in 
the hot-house and peaches on the walls. ^ 

Miss Osborne, Georgie's aunt, who, since old Osborne s 
quarrel with his son, had not been allowed to have any 
intercourse with Amelia or little Georgie, was kept ac- 
quainted with the state of Amelia's affairs by the Misses 
Dobbin, who told how she was living with her father and 
mother; how poor they were; but how the boy was really 
the noblest little boy ever seen; which praise raised a great 
desire to see the child in the heart of his maiden aunt, and 
one night when he came back from Denmark Hill m the 
pony carriage in which he rejoiced, he had round his neck 
a fine gold chain and watch. He said an old lady, not 
pretty, had been there and had given it to him, who cried 
and kissed him a great deal. But he didn't like her. He 
liked grapes very much and he only liked his mamma. 
Amelia shrunk and started; she felt a presentiment of terror, 
for she knew that Georgie's relations had seen him. 

Miss Osborne,— for it was indeed she who had seen 
Georgie,— went home that night to give her father his 
dinner He was in rather a good-humour, and chanced 
to remark her excitement. "What's the matter. Miss Os- 
borne?" he deigned to ask. ^ 

The woman burst into tears. " Oh, sir," she said, i ve 
seen little Georgie. He is as beautiful as an angel— and 

so like /n'ml " 

The old man opposite to her did not say a word, but 
flushed up, and began to tremble in every limb, and that 
nicrht he bade his daughter good-night in rather a kindly 
voice. And he must have made some inquiries of the 
Misses Dobbin regarding her visit to them when she had 
seen Georgie, for a fortnight afterwards he asked her where 
was her little French watch and chain she used to wear. 

189 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

" I bought it with my money, sir," she said in a great 
fright, not daring to tell what she had done with it. 

"Go and order another like it, or a better, if you can 
get it," said the old gentleman, and lapsed again into silence. 

After that time the Misses Dobbin frequently invited 
Georgie to visit them, and hinted to Amelia that his aunt had 
shown her inclination; perhaps his grandfather himself 
might be disposed to be reconciled to him in time. Surely, 
Amelia could not refuse such advantageous chances for 
the boy. Nor could she; but she acceded to their overtures 
with a very heavy and suspicious heart, was always uneasy 
during the child's absence from her, and welcomed him 
back as if he was rescued out of some danger. He brought 
back money and toys, at which the widow looked with alarm 
and jealousy; she asked him always if he had seen any 
gentleman. " Only old Sir William, who drove him about 
in the four-wheeled chaise, and Mr. Dobbin, who arrived 
on the beautiful bay horse in the afternoon, in the green 
coat and pink neckcloth, with the gold-headed whip, who 
promised to show him the Tower of London and take him 
out with the Surrey hounds." At last he said: "There 
was an old gentleman, with thick eyebrows and a brown 
hat and large chain and seals. He came one day as the 
coachman was leading Georgie around the lawn on the grey 
pony. He looked at me very much. He shook very much. 
I said, * My name is Norval,' after dinner. My aunt began 
to cry. She is always crying." Such was George's report 
on that night. 

Then Amelia knew that the boy had seen his grandfather; 
and looked out feverishly for a proposal which she was 
sure would follow, and which came, in fact, a few days 
afterwards. Mr. Osborne formally offered to take the boy, 
and make him heir to the fortune which he had intended 

190 



GEORGE OSBORNE — RAWDON CRAWLEY 

that his father should inherit. He would make Mrs. George 
Osborne an allowance, such as to assure her a decent com- 
petency. But it must be understood that the child would 
live entirely with his grandfather and be only occasionally 
permitted to see Mrs. George Osborne at her own home. 
This message was brought to her in a letter one day. She 
had only been seen angry a few times in her life, but now 
Mr. Osborne's lawyer so beheld her. She rose up trem- 
bling and flushing very much after reading the letter, and 
she tore the paper into a hundred fragments, which she trod 
on. "7 take money to part from my child! Who dares 
insult me proposing such a thing? Tell Mr. Osborne it 
is a cowardly letter, sir— a cowardly letter— I will not 
answer it! I wish you good-morning," and she bowed the 
lawyer out of the room like a tragedy queen. 

Her parents did not remark her agitation on that day. 
They were absorbed in their ov^n affairs, and the old gentle- 
man, her father, was deep in speculation, in which he was 
sinking the remittances regularly sent from India by his 
son, Joseph, for the support of his aged parents; and also 
that portion of Amelia's slender income which she gave 
each month to her father. Of this dangerous pastime of 
her father's Amelia was kept in ignorance, until the day 
came when he was obliged to confess that he was penniless. 
At once Amelia handed over to him what little money she 
had retained for her own and Georgie's expenses. She did 
this without a word of regret, but returned to her room to 
cry her eyes out, for she had made plans which would 
now be impossible, to have a new suit made for Georgie. 
This she was obliged to countermand, and, hardest of all, 
she had to break the matter to Georgie, who made a loud 
outcry. Everybody had new clothes at Christmas. The 
other boys would laugh at him. He would have new 

191 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

clothes, she had promised them to him. The poor widow 
had only kisses to give him. She cast about among her 
little ornaments to see if she could sell anything to procure 
the desired novelties. She remembered her India shawl 
that Dobbin sent her, which might be of value to a merchant 
with whom ladies had all sorts of dealings and bargains in 
these articles. She smiled brightly as she kissed away 
Georgie to school in the morning, and the boy felt that there 
was good news in her look. 

As soon as he had gone she hurried away to the merchant 
with her shawl hidden under her cloak. As she walked 
she calculated how, with the proceeds of her shawl, be- 
sides the clothes, she would buy the books that he wanted, 
and pay his half year's schooling at the little school to 
which he went; and how she would buy a nev/ coat for her 
father. She was not mistaken as to the value of the shawl. 
It was a very fine one, for which the merchant gave her 
twenty guineas. She ran on, amazed and flurried with her 
riches, to a shop where she purchased the books Georgie 
longed for, and went home exulting. And she pleased her- 
self by writing in the fly leaf in her neatest little hand, 
" George Osborne, A Christmas gift from his affectionate 
mother." 

She was going to place the books on Georgie's table, when 
in the passage she and her mother met. The gilt bindings 
of the little volumes caught the old lady's eye. 

"What are those? " she said. 

" Some books for Georgie," Amelia replied. " I — I 
promised them to him at Christmas." 

" Books! " cried the old lady indignantly; " books! when 
the whole house wants bread! Oh, Amelia! You break my 
heart with your books, and that boy of yours, whom you are 
ruining, though part with him you will not! Oh, Amelia, 

192 



GEORGE OSBORNE — RAWDON CRAWLEY 

may God send you a more dutiful child than I have had I 
There's Joseph deserts his father in his old age; and there's 
George, who might be rich, going to school like a lord, with 
a gold watch and chain round his neck, while my dear, 
dear, old man is without a sh-shilling." Hysterical sobs 
ended Mrs. Sedley's grief, which quite melted Amelia's 
tender heart. 

" Oh, mother, mother! " she cried. " You told me noth- 
ing. I — I promised him the books. I — I only sold my 

shawl this morning. Take the money— take everything " 

taking out her precious golden sovereigns, which she thrust 
into her mother's hands, and then went into her room, and 
sank down in despair and utter misery. She saw it all. 
Her selfishness was sacrificing the boy. But for her, he 
might have wealth, station, education, and his father's place, 
which the elder George had forfeited for her sake. She had 
but to speak the words, and her father was restored to com- 
fort, and the boy raised to fortune. Oh, what a conviction 
it was to that tender and stricken heart! 

The combat between inclination and duty lasted for many 
weeks in poor Amelia's heart. Meanwhile by every means 
in her power she attempted to earn money, but was always 
unsuccessful. Then, when matters had become tragic in 
the little family circle, she could bear the burden of pain 
no longer. Her decision was made. For the sake of others 
the child must go from her. She must give him up, — she 
must — she must. 

She put on her bonnet, scarcely knowing what she did, 
and went out to walk in the lanes, where she was in the 
habit of going to meet Georgie on his return from school. 
It was May, a half-holiday. The leaves were all coming 
out, the weather was brilliant. The boy came running to 
her flushed with health, singing, his bundle of school-books 

193 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

hanging by a thong. There he was. Both her arms were 
round him. No, it was impossible. They could not be 
going to part. "What is the matter, mother?" said he. 
" You look very sad." 

" Nothing, my child," she said, and stooped down and 
kissed him. That night Amelia made the boy read the story 
of Samuel to her, and how Hannah, his mother, having 
weaned him, brought him to Eli the High Priest to min- 
ister before the Lord. And he read the song of gratitude 
which Hannah sang; and which says: " Who is it who mak- 
eth poor and maketh rich, and bringeth low and exalteth, 
how the poor shall be raised up out of the dust, and how, 
in his own might, no man shall be strong." Then he read 
how Samuel's mother made him a little coat, and brought 
it to him from year to year when she came up to offer the 
yearly sacrifice. And then, in her sweet, simple way, 
George's mother made commentaries to the boy upon this 
affecting story. How Hannah, though she loved her son 
so much, yet gave him up because of her vow. And how 
she must always have thought of him as she sat at home, 
far away, making the little coat, and Samuel, she was sure, 
never forgot his mother; and how happy she must have been 
as the time came when she should see her boy, and how 
good and wise he had grown. This little sermon she spoke 
with a gentle, solemn voice, and dry eyes, until she came 
to the account of their meeting. Then the discourse broke 
off suddenly, the tender heart overflowed, and taking the 
boy to her breast, she rocked him in her arms, and wept 
silently over him. 

Her mind being made up, the widow began at once to 
take such measures as seemed right to her for achieving her 
purpose. One day. Miss Osborne, in Russell Square, got a 
letter from Amelia, which made her blush very much, and 

194 



GEORGE OSBORNE — RAV/DON CRAWLEY 

look towards her father, sitting glooming in his place at 
the other end of the table. 

In simple terms, Amelia told her the reasons which had 
induced her to change her mind respecting her boy. Her 
father had met with fresh misfortunes which had entirely 
ruined him. Her own pittance was so small that it would 
barely enable her to support her parents and would not 
suffice to give George the advantages which were his due. 
Great as her sufferings would be at parting with him, she 
would, by God's help, endure them for the boy's sake. 
She knew that those to whom he was going would do all 
in their power to make him happy. She described his 
disposition, such as she fancied it; quick and impatient of 
control or harshness, easily to be moved by love and kind- 
ness. In a postscript, she stipulated that she should have 
a written agreement that she should see the child as often 
as she wished; she could not part with him under any other 
terms. 

" What? Mrs. Pride has come down, has she? " old Os- 
borne said, when with a tremulous voice Miss Osborne read 
him the letter. '' Reg'lar starved out, hey? Ha, ha! I 
knew she would! " He tried to keep his dignity and to read 
his paper as usual, but he could not follow it. At last he 
flung it down: and scowling at his daughter, as his wont 
was, went out of the room and presently returned with a 
key. He flung it to Miss Osborne. 

" Get the room over mine — his room that was — ready," 
he said. 

" Yes, sir," his daughter replied in a tremble. 

It was George's room. It had not been opened for more 
than ten years. Some of his clothes, papers, handkerchiefs, 
whips and caps, fishing-rods and sporting gear, were still 
there. An army list of 1814, with his name written on the 

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BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

cover; a little dictionary he was wont to use in writing; and 
the Bible his mother had given him, were on the mantel- 
piece; with a pair of spurs, and a dried inkstand covered 
with the dust of ten years. Ah! since that ink was wet, 
what days and people had passed away! The writing- 
book still on the table was blotted with his hand. 

Miss Osborne was much affected when she first entered 
this room. She sank quite pale on the little bed. " This is 
blessed news, ma'am — indeed, ma'am," the housekeeper 
said; "the good old times is returning! The dear little 
feller, to be sure, ma'am; how happy he will be! But some 
folks in Mayfair, ma'am, will owe him a grudge! " and she 
clicked back the bolt which held the window-sash, and let 
the air into the chamber. 

" You had better send that woman some money," Mr. 
Osborne said, before he went out. " She shan't want for 
nothing. Send her a hundred pound." 

"And I'll go and see her to-morrow?" Miss Osborne 
asked. 

" That's your lookout. She don't come in here, mind. 
But she mustn't want now. So look out, and get things 
right." With which brief speeches Mr. Osborne took leave 
of his daughter, and went on his accustomed way. 

That night, when Amelia kissed her father, she put a 
bill for a hundred pounds into his hands, adding, " And 
— and, mamma, don't be harsh with Georgie. He — he is 
not going to stop with us long." She could say nothing 
more, and walked away silently to her room. 

Miss Osborne came the next day, according to the prom- 
ise contained in her note, and saw Amelia. The meeting 
between them was friendly. A look and a few words from 
Miss Osborne showed the poor widow that there need be no 
fear lest she should take the first place in her son's affec- 

196 



GEORGE OSBORNE — RAWDON CRAWLEY 

tion. She was cold, sensible, not unkind. Miss Osborne, 
on the other hand, could not but be touched with the poor 
mother's situation, and their arrangements were made to- 
gether with kindness on both sides. 

Georgie was kept from school the next day, and saw his 

aunt. Days were passed in talks, visits, preparations. The 

widow broke the matter to him with great caution; and 

was saddened to find him rather elated than otherwise. He 

bragged about the news that day to the boys at school ; told 

them how he was going to live with his grandpapa, his 

father's father, not the one who comes here sometimes; and 

that he would be very rich, and have a carriage, and a pony, 

and go to a much finer school, and when he was rich he 

would buy Leader's pencil-case, and pay the tart woman. 

At last the day came, the carriage drove up, the little 

humble packets containing tokens of love and remembrance 

were ready and disposed in the hall long since. George 

was in his new suit, for which the tailor had come previously 

to measure him. He had sprung up with the sun and put 

on the new clothes. Days before Amelia had been making 

preparations for the end; purchasing little stores for the 

boy's use; marking his books and linen; talking with him 

and preparing him for the change, fondly fancying that he 

needed preapration. 

So that he had change, what cared he? He was longing 
for it. By a thousand eager declarations as to what he 
would do when he went to live with his grandfather, he 
had shown the poor widow how little the idea of parting 
had cast him down. He would come and see his mamma 
often on the pony, he said; he would come and fetch her 
in the carriage; they would drive in the Park, and she 
would have everything she wanted. 

George stood by his mother, watching her final arrange- 

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BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

ments without the least concern, then said a gay farewell, 
went away smiling, and the widow was quite alone. 

The boy came to see her often, after that, to be sure. He 
rode on a pony with the coachman behind him, to the de- 
light of his old grandfather, Sedley, who walked proudly 
down the lane by his side. Amelia saw him, but he was 
not her boy any more. Why, he rode to see the boys at 
the little school, too, and to show off before them his new 
wealth and splendour. In two days he had adopted a 
slightly imperious air and patronising manner, and once 
fairly established in his grandfather Osborne's mansion in 
Russell Square, won the grandsire's heart by his good looks, 
gallant bearing, and gentlemanlike appearance. Mr. Os- 
borne was as proud of him as ever he had been of the elder 
George, and the child had many more luxuries and indul- 
gences than had been awarded to his father. Osborne's 
wealth and importance in the city had very much increased 
of late years. He had been glad enough to put the elder 
George in a good private school, and a commission in the 
army for his son had been a source of no small pride to him; 
but for little George and his future prospects the old man 
looked much higher. He would make a gentleman of the 
little chap, a collegian, a parliament man — a baronet, per- 
haps. He would have none but a tip-top college man to 
educate him. He would mourn in a solemn manner that 
his own education had been neglected, and repeatedly point 
out the necessity of classical acquirements. 

When they met at dinner the grandfather used to ask 
the lad what he had been reading during the day, and was 
greatly interested at the report the boy gave of his studies, 
pretending to understand little George when he spoke re- 
garding them. He made a hundred blunders, and showed 
his ignorance many a time, which George was quick to see 

198 



GEORGE OSBORNE — RAWDON CRAWLEY 

and which did not increase the respect which the child had 
for his senior. 

In fact, as young George had lorded it over the tender, 
yielding nature of his mother, so the coarse pomposity of the 
dull old man with whom he next came in contact, made 
him lord over the latter, too. If he had been a prince royal, 
he could not have been better brought up to think well of 
himself, and while his mother was yearning after him at 
home, he was having a number of pleasures and consolations 
administered to him which made the separation from 
Amelia a very easy matter to him. In fact, Master George 
Osborne had every comfort and luxury that a wealthy and 
lavish old grandfather thought fit to provide. He had the 
handsomest pony which could be bought, and on this was 
taught to ride, first at a riding-school, then in' state to 
Regent's Park, and then to Hyde Park with Martin the 
coachman behind him. 

Though he was scarcely eleven years of age. Master 
George wore straps, and the most beautiful little boots, like 
a man. He had gilt spurs and a gold-headed whip and a 
fine pin in his neckerchief, and the neatest little kid 
gloves which could be bought. His mother had given him 
a couple of neckcloths, and carefully made some little 
shirts for him; but when her Samuel came to see the widow, 
they were replaced by much finer linen. He had little 
jewelled buttons in the lawn shirt fronts. Her humble pres- 
ents had been put aside — I believe Miss Osborne had given 
them to the coachman's boy. 

Amelia tried to think she was pleased at the change. In- 
deed, she was happy and charmed to see the boy looking so 
beautiful. She had a little black profile of him done for a 
shilling, which was hung over her bed. One day the boy 
came galloping down on his accustomed visit to her, and 

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BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

with great eagerness pulled a red morocco case out of his 
coat pocket. 

" I bought it with my own money, mamma," he said. " I 
thought you'd like it." 

Amelia opened the case, and giving a little cry of de- 
lighted affection, seized him and embraced him a hundred 
times. It was a miniature of himself, very prettily done by 
an artist who had just executed his portrait for his grand- 
father. Georgie, who had plenty of money, bethought him 
to ask the painter how much a copy of the portrait would 
cost, saying that he would pay for it out of his own money, 
and that he wanted to give it to his mother. The pleased 
painter executed it for a small price, and old Osborne him- 
self, when he heard of the incident, growled out his satis- 
faction, and gave the boy twice as many sovereigns as he 
paid for the miniature. 

At his new home Master George ruled like a lord, and 
charmed his old grandfather by his ways. " Look at him," 
the old man would say, nudging his neighbour with a de- 
lighted purple face, " did you ever see such a chap? Lord, 
Lord! he'll be ordering a dressing-case next, and razors 
to shave with; I'm blessed if he won't." 

The antics of the lad did not, however, delight Mr. Os- 
borne's friends so much as they pleased the old gentleman. 
It gave Mr. Justice Coffin no pleasure to hear Georgie cut 
into the conversation and spoil his stories. Mr. Sergeant 
Toffy's lady felt no particular gratitude when he tilted a 
glass of port wine over her yellow satin, and laughed at the 
disaster; nor was she better pleased, although old Osborne 
was highly delighted, when Georgie " whopped " her third 
boy, a young gentleman a year older than Georgie, and by 
chance home for the holidays. George's grandfather gave 
the boy a couple of sovereigns for that feat, and promised 

200 



GEORGE OSBORNE — RAWDON CRAWLEY 

to reward him further for every boy above his ovv^n size and 
age whom he whopped in a similar manner. It is difficult 
to say what good the old man saw in these combats ; he had 
a vague notion that quarrelling made boys hardy, and that 
tyranny was a useful accomplishment for them to learn. 
Flushed with praise and victory over Master Toffy, George 
wished naturally to pursue his conquests further, and one 
day as he was strutting about in new clothes, near St. Pan- 
eras, and a young baker's boy made sarcastic comments upon 
his appearance, the youthful patrician pulled off his dandy 
jacket with great spirit, and giving it in charge to the friend 
who accompanied him (Master Todd, of Great Coram 
Street, Russell Square, son of the junior partner of the 
house of Osborne & Co.), tried to whop the little 
baker. But the chances of war were unfavourable this time, 
and the little baker whopped Georgie, who came home 
with a rueful black eye and all his fine shirt frill dabbled 
with the claret drawn from his own little nose. He told 
his grandfather that he had been in combat with a giant; 
and frightened his poor mother at Brampton with long, and 
by no means authentic, accounts of the battle. 

This young Todd, of Coram Street, Russell Square, was 
Master George's great friend and admirer. They both had 
a taste for painting theatrical characters; for hardbake and 
raspberry tarts; for sliding and skating in the Regent's 
Park and the Serpentine, when the weather permitted; for 
going to the play, whither they were often conducted, by 
Mr. Osborne's orders, by Rowson, Master George's ap- 
pointed body-servant, with whom they sate in great com- 
fort in the pit. 

In the company of this gentleman they visited all the 
principal theatres of the metropolis — knew the names of all 
the actors from Drury Lane to Sadler's Wells; and per- 

20I 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

formed, indeed, many of the plays to the Todd family and 
their youthful friends, with West's famous characters, on 
their pasteboard theatre. 

A famous tailor from the West End of the town was 
summoned to ornament little Georgie's person, and was told 
to spare no expense in so doing. So, Mr. Woolsey, of 
Conduit Street, gave a loose rein to his imagination, and 
sent the child home fancy trowsers, fancy waistcoats, and 
fancy jackets enough to furnish a school of little dandies. 
George had little white waistcoats for evening parties, and 
little cut velvet waistcoats for evening parties, and little 
cut velvet waistcoats for dinners, and a dear little darling 
shawl dressing-gown, for all the world like a little man. 
He dressed for dinner every day, " like a regular West End 
swell," as his grandfather remarked; one of the domestics 
was afifected to his special service, attended him at his toi- 
lette, answered his bell, and brought him his letters always 
on a silver tray. 

Georgie, after breakfast, would sit in the arm-chair in 
the dining-room, and read the Morning Post, just like a 
grown-up man. Those who remembered the Captain, his 
father, declared Master George was his pa, every inch of 
him. He made the house lively by his activity, his imper- 
iousness, his scolding, and his good-nature. 

George's education was confided to the Reverend Law- 
rence Veal, a private pedagogue who " prepared young 
noblemen and gentlemen for the Universities, the Senate, 
and the learned professions; whose system did not embrace 
the degrading corporal severities still practised at the an- 
cient places of education, and in whose family the pupils 
would find the elegances of refined society and the confi- 
dence and afifection of a home," as his prospectus stated. 

Georgie was only a day pupil ; he arrived in the morning, 

202 



GEORGE OSBORNE — RAWDON CRAWLEY 

and if it was fine would ride away in the afternoon, on his 
pony. The wealth of his grandfather was reported in the 
school to be prodigious. The Reverend Mr. Veal used to 
compliment Georgie upon it personally, warning him that 
he was destined for a high station; that it became him to 
prepare for the lofty duties to which he would be called 
later; that obedience in the child was the best preparation 
for command in the man; and that he therefore begged 
George would not bring tofifee into the school and ruin the 
health of the other pupils, who had everything they wanted 
at the elegant and abundant table of Mrs. Veal. 

Whenever Mr. Veal spoke he took care to produce the 
very finest and longest words of which the vocabulary gave 
him the use, and his manner was so pompous that little 
Georgie, who had considerable humour, used to mimic him 
to his face with great spirit and dexterity, without ever being 
discovered. Amelia was bewildered by Mr. Veal's phrases, 
but thought him a prodigy of learning, and made friends 
with his wife, that she might be asked to Mrs. Veal's recep- 
tions, which took place once a month, and where the pro- 
fessor welcomed his pupils and their friends to weak tea 
and scientific conversation. Poor little Amelia never missed 
one of these entertainments, and thought them delicious so 
long as she might have George sitting by her. 

As for the learning which George imbibed under Mr. 
Veal, to judge from the weekly reports which the lad took 
home, his progress was remarkable. The name of a score or 
more of desirable branches of knowledge were printed in a 
table, and the pupil's progress in each was marked by the 
professor. In Greek Georgie was pronounced Aristos, in 
Latin Optunus, in French Tres bien, etc.; and everybody 
had prizes for everything at the end of the year. Even that 
idle young scapegrace of a Master Todd, godson of Mr. 

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BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

Osborne, received a little eighteen-penny book, with Athene 
engraved on it, and a pompous Latin inscription from the 
professor to his young friend. An example of Georgie's 
facility in the art of composition is still treasured by his 
proud mother, and reads as follows: 

Example: The selfishness of Achilles, as remarked by the poet Homer, 
occasioned a thousand woes to the Greeks (Hom. ii A 2). The selfish- 
ness of the late Napoleon Bonaparte occasioned innumerable wars in 
Europe, and caused him to perish himself in a miserable island — that of 
St. Helena in the Atlantic Ocean. 

We see by these examples that we are not to consult our own interest 
and ambition, but that we are to consider the interests of others as well 
as our own. 

George Sedley Osborne. . 
Athene House, 24 April, 1827. 

While Georgie's days were so full of new interests, 
Amelia's life was anything but one of pleasure, for it was 
passed almost entirely in the sickroom of her mother, with 
only the gleams of joy when little George visited her, or with 
an occasional walk to Russell Square. Then came the day 
when the invalid was buried in the churchyard at Bromp- 
ton and Amelia's little boy sat by her side at the service 
in pompous new sables and quite angry that he could not 
go to a play upon which he had set his heart, while his 
mother's thoughts went back to just such another rain)'-, dark 
day, when she had married George Osborne in that very 
church. 

After the funeral the widow went back to the bereaved 
old father, who was stunned and broken by the loss of his 
wife, his honour, his fortune, in fact, everything he loved 
best. There was only Amelia now to stand by the tottering, 
heart-broken old man. This she did, to the best of her 

204 



GEORGE OSBORNE — RAWDON CRAWLEY 

ability, all unconscious that on life's ocean a bark was sail- 
ing headed towards her with those aboard who were to 
bring change and comfort to her life. 

One day when the young gentlemen of Mr. Veal's select 
school were assembled in the study, a smart carriage drove 
up to the door and two gentlemen stepped out. Everybody 
was interested, from Mr. Veal himself, who hoped he saw 
the fathers of some future pupils arriving, down to Master 
George, glad of any pretext of laying his book down. 

The boy who always opened the door came into the study, 
and said: "Two gentlemen want to see Master Osborne." 
The Professor had had a trifling dispute in the morning 
with that young gentleman, owing to a difference about the 
introduction of crackers in school-time; but his face re- 
sumed its habitual expression of bland courtesy, as he said, 
" Master Osborne, I give you full permission to go and see 
your carriage friends, — to whom I beg you to convey the 
respectful compliments of myself and Mrs. Veal." 

George went into the reception room, and saw two 
strangers, whom he looked at with his head up, in his usual 
haughty manner. One was fat, with moustaches, and the 
other was lean and long in a blue frock coat, with a brown 
face, and a grizzled head. 

"My God, how like he is!" said the long gentleman, 
with a start. " Can you guess who we are, George? " 

The boy's face flushed up, and his eyes brightened. " I 
don't know the other," he said, " but I should think you 
must be Major Dobbin." 

Indeed, it was Major Dobbin, who had come home on 
urgent private affairs, and who on board the Ramchunder, 
East Indiaman, had fallen in with no other than the 
Widow Osborne's stout brother, Joseph, who had passed the 
last ten years in Bengal. A voyage to Europe was pro- 

205 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

nounced necessary for him, and having served his full time 
in India, and having laid by a considerable sum of money, 
he was free to come home and stay with a good pension, 
or to return and resume that rank in the service to which 
he was entitled. 

Many and many a night as the ship was cutting through 
the roaring dark sea, the moon and stars shining overhead, 
and the bell singing out the watch, Mr. Sedley and the 
Major would sit on the quarter deck of the vessel, talking 
about home as they smoked. In these conversations, with 
wonderful perseverance, Major Dobbin would always 
manage to bring the talk round to the subject of Amelia. 
Jos was a little testy about his father's misfortunes and appli- 
cation to him for money, but was soothed down by the Ma- 
jor, who pointed out the elder's ill fortunes in old age. He 
pointed out how advantageous it would be for Jos Sedley 
to have a house of his own in London, and how his sister 
Amelia would be the very person to preside over it; how 
elegant, how gentle she was, and of what refined good man- 
ners. He then hinted how becoming it would be for Jos to 
send Georgy to a good school and make a man of him. In 
a word, this artful Major made Jos promise to take charge 
of Amelia and her unprotected child before that pompous 
civilian made the discovery that he was binding himself. 

Then came the arrival of the Ramchunder, the going 
ashore, and the entrance of the two men into the little home 
where Amelia was keeping her faithful watch over her 
feeble father. The excitement and surprise were a great 
shock to the old man, while to Amelia they were the great- 
est happiness that could have come to her. Of course the 
first thing she did was to show Georgie's miniature, and to 
tell of his great accomplishments, and then she secured the 
promise that the Major and her brother would visit the 

206 



GEORGE OSBORNE — RAWDON CRAWLEY 

Reverend Mr. Veal's school at the earliest possible moment. 
This promise we have seen redeemed. Major Dobbin and 
Joseph Sedley, having become acquainted with the details of 
Amelia's lonely life, and of Georgie's happy one, lost no 
time in altering such circumstances as were within their 
power to change. Jos Sedley, notwithstanding his pompous 
selfishness and egoism, had a very tender heart, and shortly 
after his first appearance at Brompton, old Sedley and his 
daughter were carried away from the humble cottage in 
which they had passed the last ten years of their life to 
the handsome new home which Jos Sedley had provided 
for himself and them. 

Good fortune now began to smile upon Amelia. Jos's 
friends were all from three presidencies, and his new house 
was in the centre of the comfortable Anglo-Indian district. 
Owing to Jos Sedley's position numbers of people came 
to see Mrs. Osborne who before had never noticed her. 
Lady Dobbin and her daughters were delighted at her 
change of fortune, and called upon her. Miss Osborne, 
herself, came in her grand chariot; Jos was reported to be 
immensely rich. Old Osborne had no objection that George 
should inherit his uncle's property as well as his own. 
"We will make a man of the fellow," he said; "and I 
will see him in parliament before I die. You may go and 
see his mother. Miss Osborne, though I'll never set eyes 
on her"; and Miss Osborne came. George was allowed 
to dine once or twice a week with his mother, and bullied 
the servants and his relations there, just as he did in Russell 
Square. 

He was always respectful to Major Dobbin, however, 
and more modest in his demeanour when that gentleman 
was present. He was a clever lad, and afraid of the Major. 
George could not help admiring his friend's simplicity, his 

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BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

good-humour, his various learning quietly imparted, his 
general love of truth and justice. He had met no such man 
as yet in the course of his experience, and he had an in- 
stinctive liking for a gentleman. He hung fondly by his 
god-father's side; and it was his delight to walk in the 
Parks and hear Dobbin talk. William told George about 
his father, about India and Waterloo, about everything but 
himself. When George was more than usually pert and con- 
ceited, the Major joked at him, which Mrs. Osborne thought 
very cruel. One day taking him to the play, and the boy 
declining to go into the pit because it was vulgar, the Major 
took him to the boxes, left him there, and went down him- 
self to the pit. He had not been seated there very long 
before he felt an arm thrust under his, and a dandy little 
hand in a kid-glove squeezing his arm. George had seen 
the absurdity of his ways, and come down from the upper 
region. A tender laugh of benevolence lighted up old Dob- 
bin's face and eyes as he looked at the repentant little prodi- 
gal. He loved the boy very deeply. 

If there was a sincere liking between George and the 
Major, it must be confessed that between the boy and his 
Uncle Joseph no great love existed. George had got a way 
of blowing out his cheeks, and putting his hands in his 
waistcoat pockets, and saying, " God bless my soul, you 
don't say so," so exactly after the fashion of old Jos, that it 
was impossible to refrain from laughter. The servants 
would explode at dinner if the lad, asking for something 
which wasn't at table, put on that countenance and used that 
favourite phrase. Even Dobbin would shoot out a sudden 
peal at the boy's mimicry. If George did not mimic his 
uncle to his face, it was only by Dobbin's rebukes and 
Amelia's terrified entreaties that the little scapegrace was 
induced to desist. And Joseph, having a dim consciousness 

208 



GEORGE OSBORNE — RAWDON CRAWLEY 

that the lad thought him an ass, and was inclined to turn 
him into ridicule, used to be of course doubly pompous 
and dignified in the presence of Master George. When it 
was announced that the young gentleman was expected to 
dine with his mother, Mr. Jos commonly found that he 
had an engagement at the Club, and perhaps nobody was 
much grieved at his absence. 

Before long Amelia had a visiting-book, and was driving 
about regularly in a carriage, from which a buttony boy 
sprang from the box with Amelia's and Jos's visiting cards. 
At stated hours Emmy and the carriage went to the Club, 
and took Jos for an airing; or, putting old Sedley into the 
vehicle, she drove the old man round the Regent's Park. We 
are not long in growing used to changes in life. Her lady's- 
maid and the chariot, her visiting book, and the buttony 
page became soon as familiar to Amelia as the humble 
routine of Brompton. She accommodated herself to one as 
to the other, and entertained Jos's friends with the same un- 
selfish charm with which she cared for and amused old John 
Sedley. 

Then came the day when that poor old man closed his 
eyes on the familiar scenes of earth, and Major Dobbin, 
Jos, and George followed his remains to the grave in a 
black cloth coach. " You see," said old Osborne to George, 
when the burial was over, " what comes of merit and indus- 
try and good speculation, and that. Look at me and my 
bank account. Look at your poor Grandfather Sedley, and 
his failure. And yet he was a better man than I was, this 
day twenty 3^ears — a better man, I should say, by ten thou- 
sand pounds." And this worldly wisdom little George re- 
ceived in profound silence, taking it for what it was worth. 

About this time old Osborne conceived much admiration 
for Major Dobbin, which he had acquired from the world's 

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BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

opinion of that gentleman. Also Major Dobbin's name ap- 
peared in the lists of one or two great parties of the nobility, 
which circumstance had a prodigious effect upon the old 
aristocrat of Russell Square. Also the Major's position 
as guardian to George, whose possession had been ceded to 
his grandfather, rendered some meetings between the two 
gentleman inevitable, and it was in one of these that old Os- 
borne, from a chance hint supplied by the blushing Major, 
discovered that a part of the fund upon which the poor 
widow and her child had subsisted during their time of 
want, had been supplied out of William Dobbin's own 
pocket. This information gave old Osborne pain, but in- 
creased his admiration for the Major, who had been such 
a loyal friend to his son's wife. From that time it was 
evident that old Osborne's opinion was softening, and soon 
Jos and the Major were asked to dinner at Russell Square, 
— to a dinner the most splendid that perhaps ever Mr. Os- 
borne gave; every inch of the family plate was exhibited 
and the best company was asked. More than once old Os- 
borne asked Major Dobbin about Mrs. George Osborne, 
— a theme on which the Major could be very eloquent. 

" You don't know what she endured, sir," said honest 
Dobbin; " and I hope and trust you will be reconciled to 
her. If she took your son away from you, she gave hers 
to you ; and however much you loved your George, depend 
on it, she loved hers ten times more." 

" You are a good fellow, sir! " was all Mr. Osborne said. 
But it was evident in later events that the conversation had 
had its effect upon the old man. He sent for his lawyers, 
and made some changes in his will, which was well, for 
one day shortly after that act he died suddenly. 

When his will was read it was found that half the prop- 
erty was left to George. Also an annuity of five hundred 

2IO 



GEORGE OSBORNE — RAWDON CRAWLEY 

pounds was left to his mother, " the widow of my beloved 
son, George Osborne," who was to resume the guardianship 
of the boy. 

Major William Dobbin was appointed executor, " and as 
out of his kindness and bounty he maintained my grandson 
and my son's widow with his own private funds when they 
were otherwise without means of support" (the testator 
went on to say), " I hereby thank him heartily, and beseech 
him to accept such a sum as may be sufficient to purchase 
his commission as a Lieutenant Colonel, or to be disposed 
of in any way he may think fit." When Amelia heard that 
her father-in-law was reconciled to her, her heart melted, 
and she was grateful for the fortune left to her. But when 
she heard how George was restored to her, and that it had 
been William's bounty that supported her in poverty, that it 
was William who had reconciled old Osborne to her, then 
her gratitude and joy knew no bounds. 

When the nature of Mr. Osborne's will became known to 
the world, once more Mrs. George Osborne rose in the esti- 
mation of the people forming her circle of acquaintance; 
even Jos himself paid her and her rich little boy, his 
nephew, the greatest respect, and began to show her much 
more attention than formerly. 

As George's guardian, Amelia begged Miss Osborne to 
live in the Russell Square house, but Miss Osborne did not 
choose to do so. And Amelia also declined to occupy the 
gloomy old mansion. But one day, clad in deep sables, 
she went with George to visit the deserted house which she 
had not entered since she was a girl. They went into the 
great blank rooms, the walls of which bore the marks where 
pictures and mirrors had hung. Then they went up the 
great stone staircase into the upper rooms, into that where 
grandpapa died, as Georgie said in a whisper, and then 

211 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

higher still into George's own room. The boy was still 
clinging by her side, but she thought of another besides 
him. She knew that it had been his father's room before it 
was his. I 

" Look here, mother," said George, standing by the 
window, " here's G. O. scratched on the glass with a dia- 
mond; I never saw it before. I never did it." 

" It was your father's room long before you were born, 
George," she said, and she blushed as she kissed the boy. 

She was very silent as they drove back to Richmond, 
where they had taken a temporary house, but after that 
time practical matters occupied her mind. There were 
many directions to be given and much business to transact, 
and Amelia immediately found herself in the whirl of quite 
a new life, and experienced the extreme joy of having 
George continually with her, as he was at that time removed 
from Mr. Veal's on an unlimited holiday. 

George's aunt, Mrs. Bullock, who had before her mar- 
riage been Miss Osborne, thought it wise now to become 
reconciled with Amelia and her boy. Consequently one day 
her chariot drove up to Amelia's house, and the Bullock 
family made an irruption into the garden, where Amelia 
was reading. 

Jos was in an arbour, placidly dipping strawberries 
into wine, and the Major was giving a back to George, 
who chose to jump over him. He went over his head, and 
bounded into the little group of Bullocks, with immense 
black bows on their hats, and huge black sashes, accompany- 
ing their mourning mamma. 

" He is just the age for Rosa," the fond parent thought, 
and glanced towards that dear child, a little miss of seven 
years. " Rosa, go and kiss your dear cousin," added Mrs. 
Bullock. " Don't you know me, George? I am your aunt.'* 

212 



GEORGE OSBORNE — RAWDON CRAWLEY 

" I know you well enough," George said; "but I don't 
like kissing, please," and he retreated from the obedient 
caresses of his cousin. 

" Take me to your dear mamma, you droll child," Mrs. 
Bullock said; and those ladies met, after an absence of more 
than fifteen years. During Emmy's poverty Mrs. Bullock 
had never thought about coming to see her; but now that she 
was decently prosperous in the world, her sister-in-law came 
to her as a matter of course. 

So did many others. In fact, before the period of grief 
for Mr. Osborne's death had subsided, Emmy, had she 
wished, could have become a leader in fashionable society. 
But that was not her desire: worn out with the long period 
of poverty, care, and separation from George, her one wish 
was a change of scene and thought. 

Because of this wish, some time later, on a fine morning, 
when the Batavier steamboat was about to leave its dock, 
we see among the carriages being taken on, a very neat, 
handsome travelling carriage, from which a courier, Kirsch 
by name, got out and informed inquirers that the carriage 
belonged to an enormously rich Nabob from Calcutta and 
Jamaica, with whom he was engaged to travel. At this 
moment a young gentleman who had been warned off the 
bridge between the paddle-boxes, and who had dropped 
thence onto the roof of Lord Methusala's carriage, from 
which he made his way over other carriages until he had 
clambered onto his own, descended thence and through the 
window into the body of the carriage to the applause of the 
couriers looking on. 

" Nous allons avoir une belle traversee, Monsieur 
George," said Kirsch with a grin, as he lifted his gold laced 
cap. 

"Bother your French!" said the young gentleman. 

213 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

" Where's the biscuits, ay? " Whereupon Kirsch answered 
him in such English as he could command and produced the 
desired repast. 

The imperious young gentleman who gobbled the bis- 
cuits (and indeed it was time to refresh himself, for he 
had breakfasted at Richmond full three hours before) was 
our young friend George Osborne. Uncle Jos and his 
mamma were on the quarter-deck with Major Dobbin, and 
the four were about to make a summer tour. Amelia wore 
a straw bonnet with black ribbons, and otherwise dressed 
in mourning, but the little bustle and holiday of the journey 
pleased and excited her, and from that day throughout the 
entire journey she continued to be very happy and pleased. 
Wherever they stopped Dobbin used to carry about for her 
her stool and sketch book, and admired her drawings as 
they never had been admired before. She sat upon steamer 
decks and drew crags and castles, or she mounted upon 
donkeys and descended to ancient robber towers, attended 
by her two escorts, Georgie and Dobbin. Dobbin was inter- 
preter for the party, having a good military knowledge of 
the German language, and he and the delighted George, 
who was having a wonderful trip, fought over again the 
campaigns of the Rhine and the Palatinate. In the course 
of a few weeks of constant conversation with Herr Kirsch 
on the box of the carriage, George made great advance in 
the knowledge of High Dutch, and could talk to hotel 
waiters and postilions in a way that charmed his mother 
and amused his guardian. 

At the little ducal town of Pumpernickel our party settled 
down for a protracted stay. There each one of them found 
something especially pleasing or interesting them, and there 
it was that they encountered an acquaintance of other days, 
— no other than Mrs. Rawdon Crawley; and because of 

214 



GEORGE OSBORNE — RAWDON CRAWLEY 

Becky's experiences since she had quitted her husband, her 
child, and the little house in Curzon Street, London, of 
which he knew the details, Major Dobbin was anything but 
pleased at the meeting. 

But Becky told Amelia a pathetic little tale of misery, 
neglect, and estrangement from those she loved, and tender- 
hearted Amelia, who quivered with indignation at the re- 
cital, at once invited Becky to join their party. To this 
Major Dobbin made positive objections, but Amelia re- 
mained firm in her resolve to shelter the friend of her 
school-days, the mother who had been cruelly taken away 
from her boy by a misjudging sister-in-law. This decision 
brought ab6ut a crisis in Amelia's affairs: Major Dobbin, 
who had been so devotedly attached to Amelia for years, 
also remained firm, and insisted not only that Amelia have 
no more to do with Mrs. Crawley, but that if she did, he 
would leave the party. Amelia was firm and loyal, and 
honest Dobbin made preparations for his departure. 

When the coach that was to carry old Dob away drew 
up before the door, Georgie gave an exclamation of sur- 
prise. 

" Hello!" said he, " there's Dob's trap! There's Francis 
coming out with the portmanteau, and the postilion. Look 
at his boots and yellow jacket — why — they are putting the 
horses to Dob's carriage. Is he going anywhere? " 

" Yes," said Amelia, " he is going on a journey." 

" Going on a journey! And when is he coming back? " 

" He is — not coming back," answered Amelia. 

"Not coming back!" cried out Georgie, jumping up. 

" Stay here," roared out Jos. 

" Stay, Georgie," said his mother, with a very sad face. 

The boy stopped, kicked about the room, jumped up and 
down from the window seat, and finally, when the Major's 

215 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

luggage had been carried out, gave way to his feelings again. 
" By Jove, I will go! ".screamed out George, and rushed 
downstairs and flung across the street in a minute. 

The yellow postilion was cracking his whip gently. Wil- 
liam had got into the carriage, George bounded in after 
him, and flung his arms around the Major's neck, asking 
him multiplied questions. William kissed Georgie, spoke 
gently and sadly to him, and the boy got out, doubling his 
fists into his eyes. The yellow postilion cracked his whip 
again, up sprang Francis to the box, and away Dobbin was 
carried, never looking up as he passed under Amelia's 
window; and Georgie, left alone in the street, burst out 
crying in the face of all the crowd and continued his lam- 
entations far into the night, when Amelia's maid, who heard 
him howling, brought him some preserved apricots to con- 
sole him. 

Thus honest Dobbin passed out of the life of Amelia and 
her boy, but not forever. Gentle Amelia was soon disil- 
lusioned in regard to the old schoolmate whom she had 
taken under her care, and found that in all the world there 
was no one who meant so much to her as faithful Dobbin. 
One morning she wrote and despatched a note, the inscrip- 
tion of which no one saw; but on account of which she 
looked very much flushed and agitated when Georgie met 
her coming from the Post; and she kissed him and hung 
over him a great deal that night. Two mornings later 
George, walking on the dyke with his mother, saw by the 
aid of his telescope an English steamer near the pier. 
George took the glass again and watched the vessel. 

" How she does pitch! There goes a wave slap over her 
bows. There's a man lying down, and a — chap — in a — 
cloak with a — Hurrah! It's Dob, by jingo! " He clapped 
to the telescope and flung his arms round his mother, then 

216 



GEORGE OSBORNE — RAWDON CRAWLEY 

ran swiftly off; and Amelia was left to make her peace 
alone with the faithful Major, who had returned at her 
request. 

Some days later Becky Sharp felt it wise to leave for 
Bruges, and in the little church at Ostend there was a wed- 
ding, at which the only witnesses were Georgie and his 
Uncle Jos. Amelia Osborne had decided to accept the Ma- 
jor's protection for life, to the never-ending satisfaction of 
George, to whom the Major had always been comrade and 
father. 

Immediately after his marriage Colonel Dobbin quitted 
the service and rented a pretty little country place in Hamp- 
shire, not far from Queen's Crawley, where Sir Pitt and 
his family constantly resided now, and where Rawdon 
Crawley was regarded as their son. 

Lady Jane and Mrs. Dobbin became great friends, and 
there was a perpetual crossing of pony chaises between the 
two places. Lady Jane was godmother to Mrs. Dobbin's 
little girl, who bore her name, and the two lads, George 
Osborne and Rawdon Crawley, who had met so many years 
before as children when little Rawdon invited George to 
take a ride on his pony, and whose lives had been filled with 
such different experiences since that time, now became 
close friends. They were both entered at the same college 
at Cambridge, hunted and shot together in the vacations, 
confided in each other; and when we last see them, 
fast becoming young men, they are deep in a quarrel about 
Lady Jane's daughter, with whom they were both, of course, 
in love. 

No further proof of approaching age is needed than a 
quarrel over a young lady, and the lads, George and Raw- 
don, now give place forever to men. Though the circum- 
stances of their lives had been unlike, though George had 

217 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

had all the love that a devoted mother could give, and all 
the luxury which money could supply: and Rawdon had 
been without a mother's devotion ; without the surroundings 
which had made George's life luxurious, — on the threshold 
of manhood we find them on an equal footing, entering life's 
arena, strong of limb, glad of heart, eager for what manhood 
was to bring them. 



218 



CLIVE AND ETHEL 
NEWCOME 



219 










Clive and Ethel Newcome. 



CLIVE AND ETHEL 
NEWCOME 



WHEN one is about to write the biography of a 
certain person, it seems but fair to give as its 
background such facts concerning the hero's 
antecedents as place the details of his life in 
their proper setting. And so, having the honour 
to be the juvenile biographer of Mr. Clive Newcome, I 
deem it wise to preface the story of his life with a brief 
account of events and persons antecedent to his birth. 

Thomas Newcome, Clive's grandfather, had been a 
weaver in his native village, and brought the very best 
character for honesty, thrift, and ingenuity with him to 
London, where he was taken into the house of Hobson 
Brothers, cloth-manufacturers; afterwards Hobson & New- 
come. When Thomas Newcome had been some time in 
London, he quitted the house of Hobson, to begin business 
for himself. And no sooner did his business prosper than 
he married a pretty girl from his native village. What 
seemed an imprudent match, as his wife had no worldly 
goods to bring him, turned out a very lucky one for New- 
come. The whole countryside was pleased to think of the 
marriage of the prosperous London tradesman with the 
penniless girl whom he had loved in the days of his own 
poverty; the great country clothiers, who knew his pru- 

221 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

dence and honesty, gave him much of their business, and 
Susan Newcome would have been the wife of a rich man 
had she not died a year after her marriage, at the birth of 
her son, Thomas. 

Newcome had a nurse for the child, and a cottage at 
Clapham, hard by Mr. Hobson's house, and being held in 
good esteem by his former employers, was sometimes in- 
vited by them to tea. When his wife died. Miss Hobson, 
who since her father's death had become a partner in the 
firm, met Mr. Newcome with his little boy as she was com- 
ing out of meeting one Sunday, and the child looked so 
pretty, and Mr. Newcome so personable, that Miss Hobson 
invited him and little Tommy into the grounds; let the 
child frisk about in the hay on the lawn, and at the end of 
the visit gave him a large piece of pound-cake, a quantity 
of the finest hot-house grapes, and a tract in one syllable. 
Tommy was ill the next day; but on the next Sunday his 
father was at meeting, and not very long after that Miss 
Hobson became Mrs. Newcome. 

After his father's second marriage. Tommy and Sarah, 
his nurse, who was also a cousin of Mr. Newcome's first 
wife, were transported from the cottage, where they had 
lived in great comfort, to the palace hard by, surrounded by 
lawns and gardens, graperies, aviaries, luxuries of all kinds. 
This paradise was separated from the outer world by a^ 
thick hedge of tall trees and an ivy-covered porter's gate, 
through which they who travelled to London on the top of 
the Clapham coach could only get a glimpse of the bliss 
within. It was a serious paradise. As you entered at the 
gate, gravity fell on you; and decorum wrapped you in 
a garment of starch. The butcher boy who galloped his 
horse and cart madly about the adjoining lanes, on passing 
that lodge fell into an undertaker's pace, and delivered his 

222 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

joints and sweetbreads silently at the servant's entrance. 
The rooks in the elms cawed sermons at morning and even- 
ing; the peacocks walked demurely on the terraces; the 
guinea fowls looked more Quaker-like than those birds 
usually do. The lodge-keeper was serious, and a clerk at 
the neighbouring chapel. The pastor, who entered at that 
gate and greeted his comely wife and children, fed the little 
lambkins with tracts. The head gardener was a Scotch 
Calvinist, after the strictest order. On a Sunday the house- 
hold marched away to sit under his or her favourite minis- 
ter, the only man who went to church being Thomas New- 
come, with Tommy, his little son. Tommy was taught 
hymns suited to his tender age, pointing out the inevitable 
fate of wicked children and giving him a description of the 
punishment of little sinners, which poems he repeated to 
his step-mother after dinner, before a great shining ma- 
hogany table, covered with grapes, pineapples, plum cake, 
port wine, and madeira, and surrounded by stout men in 
black, with baggy white neckcloths, who took the little 
man between their knees and questioned him as to his right 
understanding of the place whither naughty boys were 
bound. They patted his head if he said well, or rebuked 
him if he was bold, as he often was. 

Then came the birth of Mrs. Newcome's twin boys, Hob- 
son and Bryan, and now there was no reason why young 
Newcome, their step-brother, should not go to school, and 
to Grey Friars Thomas Newcome was accordingly sent, 
exchanging — O ye gods! with what delight — the splendour 
of Clapham for the rough, plentiful fare of the new place. 
The pleasures of school-life were such to him that he did 
not care to go home for a holiday; for by playing tricks 
and breaking windows, by taking the gardener's peaches 
and the housekeeper's jam, by upsetting his two little broth- 

223 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

ers in a go-cart (of which injury the Baronet's nose bore 
marks to his dying day), by going to sleep during the ser- 
mons, and treating reverend gentlemen with levity, he 
drew down on himself the merited anger of his step-mother; 
and many punishments. To please Mrs. Newcome, his 
father whipped Tommy for upsetting his little brothers 
in the go-cart; but, upon being pressed to repeat the whip- 
ping for some other prank, Mr. Newcome refused, saying 
that the boy got flogging enough at school, with which opin- 
ion Master Tommy fully agreed. His step-mother, how- 
ever, determined to make the young culprit smart for his 
offences, and one day, when Mr. Newcome was absent, 
and Tommy refractory as usual, summoned^ the butler and 
footman to flog the young criminal. But he dashed so 
furiously against the butler's shins as to cause that menial 
to limp and suffer for many days after; and, seizing the 
decanter, he threatened to discharge it at Mrs. Newcome's 
head before he would submit to the punishment she desired 
administered. When Mr. Newcome returned, he was in- 
dignant at his wife's treatment of Tommy, and said so, to 
her great displeasure. This affair, indeed, almost caused 
a break in their relations, and friends and clergy were 
obliged to interfere to allay the domestic quarrel. At 
length Mrs. Newcome, who was not unkind, and could 
be brought to own that she was sometimes in fault, was in- 
duced to submit to the decrees of her husband, whom she 
had vowed to love and honour. When Tommy fell ill of 
scarlet fever she nursed him through his illness, and uttered 
no reproach to her husband when the twins took the disease. 
And even though Tommy in his delirium vowed that he 
would put on his clothes and run away to his old nurse 
Sarah, Mrs. Newcome's kindness to him never faltered. 
What the boy threatened in his delirium, a year later he 

224 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

actually achieved. He ran away from home, and appeared 
one morning, gaunt and hungry, at Sarah's cottage two 
hundred miles away from Clapham. She housed the poor 
prodigal with many tears and kisses, and put him to bed 
and to sleep; from which slumber he was aroused by the 
appearance of his father, whose instinct, backed by Mrs. 
Newcome's intelligence, had made him at once aware 
whither the young runaway had fled. Seeing a horsewhip 
in his parent's hand, Tommy, scared out of a sweet sleep 
and a delightful dream of cricket, knew his fate; and 
getting out of bed, received his punishment without a word. 
Very likely the father suffered more than the child; for, 
when the punishment was over, the little man yet quivering 
with the pain, held out his little bleeding hand, and said, 
" I can — I can take it from you, sir," saying which his 
face flushed, and his eyes filled, whereupon the father burst 
into a passion of tears, and embraced the boy, and kissed 
him, besought him to be rebellious no more, flung the whip 
away from him, and swore, come what would, he would 
never strike him again. The quarrel was the means of a 
great and happy reconciliation. But the truce was only a 
temporary one. War very soon broke out again between 
the impetuous lad and his rigid, domineering step-mother. 
It was not that he was very bad, nor she so very stern, but 
the two could not agree. The boy sulked and was miserable 
at home, and, after a number of more serious escapades 
than he had before indulged in, he was sent to a tutor for 
military instruction, where he was prepared for the army 
and received a fairly good professional education. He cul- 
tivated mathematics and fortification, and made rapid 
progress in his study of the French language. But again 
did our poor Tommy get into trouble, and serious trouble 
indeed this time, for it involved his French master's pretty 

225 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

young daughter as well as himself. Frantic with wrath 
and despair at the unfortunate climax of events, young 
Newcome embarked for India, and quitted the parents 
whom he was never more to see. His name was no more 
mentioned at Clapham, but he wrote constantly to his 
father, who sent Tom liberal private remittances to India, 
and was in turn made acquainted with the fact of his son's 
marriage, and later received news of the birth of his grand- 
son, Clive. 

Old Thomas Newcome would have liked to leave all 
his private fortune to his son Thomas, for the twins were 
only too well provided for, but he dared not, for fear of his 
wife, and he died, and poor Tom was only secretly forgiven. 

So much for the history of Clive Newcome's father and 
grandfather. Having related it in full detail, we can now 
proceed to the narrative of Clive's life, he being the hero 
of this tale. 

From the day of his birth until he was some seven years 
old, Clive's English relatives knew nothing about him. 
Then, Colonel Newcome's wife having died, and having 
kept the boy with him as long as the climate would allow, 
Thomas Newcome, now Lieutenant-Colonel, decided that 
it was wise to send Clive to England, to entrust him to the 
boy's maternal aunt, Miss Honeyman, who was living at 
Brighton, that Clive might have the superior advantages 
of school days in England. 

Let us glance at a few extracts from letters received by 
Colonel Newcome after his boy had reached England. The 
aunt to whose care he was entrusted wrote as follows: 

With the most heartfelt joy, my dear Major, I take up my pen to 
announce to you the happy arrival of the Ramchunder and the dearest 
and handsomest little boy who, I am sure, ever came from India. Little 

226 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

Clive is in perfect health. He speaks English wonderfully well. He cried 
when he parted from Mr. Sneid, the supercargo, who most kindly brought 
him from Southhampton in a postchaise, but these tears in childhood are 
of very brief duration ! . . . 

You may be sure that the most liberal sum which you have placed to 
my credit with the Messrs. Hobson & Co. shall be faithfully expended 
on my dear little charge. Of course, unless Mrs. Newcome, — who can 
scarcely be called his grandmamma, I suppose, — writes to invite dear 
Clive to Clapham, I shall not think of sending him there. My brother, 
who thanks you for your continuous bounty, will write next month, and re- 
port progress as to his dear pupil. Clive will add a postscript of his own, 
and I am, my dear Major, 

Your grateful and affectionate, 

Martha Honeyman. 

In a round hand and on lines ruled with pencil : 

Dearest Papa i am very well i hope you are Very Well. Mr. Sneed 
brought me in a postchaise i like Mr. Sneed very much. I like Aunt 
Martha I like Hannah. There are no ships here I am your affectionate 
son Clive Newcome. 

There was also a note from Colonel Newcome's step- 
brother, Bryan, as follows: 

My Dear Thomas: Mr. Sneid, supercargo of the Ramchunder, East 
Indiaman, handed over to us yesterday your letter, and, to-day, I have 
purchased three thousand three hundred and twenty-three pounds 6 
and 8, three per cent Consols, in our joint names (H. and B. New- 
come), held for your little boy. Mr. S. gives a favourable account of 
the little man, and left him in perfect health two days since, at the house 
of his aunt. Miss Honeyman. We have placed £200 to that lady's 
credit, at your desire. I dare say my mother will ask your little boy to 
the Hermitage; and when we have a house of our own I am sure Ann 
and I shall be very happy to see him. 

Yours affectionately, 

B. Newcome. 
227 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

And another from Miss Honeyman's brother, containing 
the following: 

Major Newcome: 

My Dear Colonel: . . . Clive is everything that a father's and 
uncle's, a pastor's, a teacher's, affections could desire. He is not a pre- 
mature genius; he is not, I frankly own, more advanced in his classical 
and mathematical studies than some children even younger than himself; 
but he has acquired the rudiments of health ; he has laid in a store of 
honesty and good-humour which are not less likely to advance him in life 
than mere science and language . . . etc., etc., 

Your affectionate brother-in-law, 

Charles Honeyman. 

Another letter from Miss Honeyman herself said: 

My Dear Colonel: ... As my dearest little Clive was too small 
for a great school, I thought he could not do better than stay with his 
old aunt and have his uncle Charles for a tutor, who is one of the finest 
scholars in the world. Of late he has been too weak to take a curacy, 
so I thought he could not do better than become Clive's tutor, and agreed 
to pay him out of your handsome donation of £250 for Clive, a sum of 
one hundred pounds per year. But I find that Charles is too kind to 
be a schoolmaster, and Master Clive laughs at him. It was only the 
other day after his return from his grandmamma's that I found a picture 
of Mrs. Newcome and Charles, too, and of both their spectacles, quite 
like. He has done me and Hannah, too. Mr. Speck, the artist, says he 
is a wonder at drawing. 

Our little Clive has been to London on a visit to his uncles and to 
Clapham, to pay his duty to his step-grandmother, the wealthy Mrs. 
Newcome. She was very gracious to him, and presented him with a five 
pound note, a copy of Kirk White's poems and a work called Little 
Henry and his Bearer, relating to India, and the excellent catechism of 
our Church. Clive is full of humour, and I enclose you a rude scrap 
representing the Bishopess of Clapham, as Mrs. Newcome is called. 

Instead then of allowing Clive to be with Charles in London next 

228 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

month I shall send him to Doctor Timpany's school, Marine Parade, of 
which I hear the best account; but I hope you will think of soon sending 
him to a great school. My father always said it was the best place for 
boys, and I have a brother to whom my poor mother spared the rod, and 
who I fear has turned out but a spoiled child. 
I am, dear Colonel, your most faithful servant, 

Martha Honeyman. 

Besides the news gleaned from these letters we gather 
the main facts concerning little Clive's departure from the 
Colonel's side. He had kept the child with him until he 
felt sure that the change would be of advantage to the pretty 
boy, then had parted from him with bitter pangs of heart, 
and thought constantly of him with longing and affection. 
With the boy, it was different. Half an hour after his 
father had left him and in grief and loneliness was rowing 
back to shore, Clive was at play with a dozen other chil- 
dren on the sunny deck of the ship. When two bells rang 
for their dinner, they were all hurrying to the table, busy 
over their meal, and forgetful of all but present happiness. 

But with that fidelity which was an instinct of his nature, 
Colonel Newcome thought ever of his absent child and 
longed after him. He never forsook the native servants 
who had had charge of Clive, but endowed them with 
money sufficient to make all their future lives comfortable. 
No friends went to Europe, nor ship departed, but New- 
come sent presents to the boy and costly tokens of his love 
and thanks to all who were kind to his son. His aim was 
to save money for the youngster, but he was of a nature so 
generous that he spent five rupees where another would 
save them. However, he managed to lay by considerable 
out of his liberal allowances, and to find himself and Clive 
growing richer every year. 

" When Clive has had five or six years at school " — that 

229 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

was his scheme — " he will be a fine scholar, and have at 
least as much classical learning as a gentleman in the world 
need possess. Then I will go to England, and we will pass 
three or four years together, in which he will learn to be 
intimate with me, and, I hope, to like me. I shall be his 
pupil for Latin and Greek, and try and make up for lost 
time. I know there is nothing like a knowledge of the 
classics to give a man good breeding. I shall be able to 
help him with my knowledge of the world, and to keep 
him out of the way of sharpers and a pack of rogues who 
commonly infest young men. And we will travel together, 
first through England, Scotland, and Ireland, for every 
man should know his own country, and then we will make 
the grand tour. Then by the time he is eighteen he will 
be able to choose his profession. He can go into the army, 
or, if he prefers, the church, or the law — they are open to 
him ; and when he goes to the university, by which time I 
shall be, in all probability, a major-general, I can come back 
to India for a few years, and return by the time he has a 
wife and a home for his old father; or, if I die, I shall 
have done the best for him, and my boy will be left with the 
best education, a tolerable small fortune, and the blessing of 
his old father." 

Such were the plans of the kind schemer. How fondly 
he dwelt on them, how affectionately he wrote of them to 
his boy! How he read books of travels and looked over the 
maps of Europe! and said, ''Rome, sir, glorious Rome; 
it won't be very long, major, before my boy and I see the 
Colosseum, and kiss the Pope's toe. We shall go up the 
Rhine to Switzerland, and over the Simplon, the work of 
the great Napoleon. By jove, sir, think of the Turks before 
Vienna, and Sobieski clearing eighty thousand of 'em off 
the face of the earth! How my boy will rejoice in the pic- 

230 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

ture galleries there, and in Prince Eugene's prints! The 
boy's talent for drawing is wonderful, sir, wonderful. He 
sent me a picture of our old school. The very actual thing, 
sir; the cloisters, the school, the head gown boy going in 
with the rods, and the doctor himself. It would make you 
die of laughing! " 

He regaled the ladies of the regiment with Clive's let- 
ters, and those of Miss Honeyman, which contained an ac- 
count of the boy. He even bored some of his hearers with 
this prattle; and sporting young men would give or take 
odds that the Colonel would mention Clive's name, once 
before five minutes, three times in ten minutes, twenty-five 
times in the course of dinner, and so on. But they who 
laughed at the Colonel laughed very kindly; and every- 
body who knew him, loved him; everybody that is, who 
loved modesty, generosity and honour. 

As to Clive himself, by this time he was thoroughly en- 
joying his new life in England. After remaining for a 
time at Doctor Timpany's school, where he was first placed 
by his aunt. Miss Honeyman, he was speedily removed to 
that classical institution in which Colonel Newcome had 
been a student in earlier days. My acquaintance with young 
Clive was at this school, Grey Friars, where our acquaint- 
ance was brief and casual. He had the advantage of being 
six years my junior, and such a difference of age between 
lads at a public school puts intimacy out of the question, 
even though we knew each other at home, as our school 
phrase was, and our families were somewhat acquainted. 
When Newcome's uncle, the Reverend Charles Honeyman, 
brought Newcome to the Grey Friars School, he recom- 
mended him to my superintendence and protection, and 
told me that his young nephew's father, Colonel Thomas 
Newcome, C. B., was a most gallant and distinguished 

231 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

officer in the Bengal establishment of the honourable East 
India Company; and that his uncles, the Colonel's half- 
brothers, were the eminent bankers, heads of the firm of 
Hobson Brothers & Newcome, Hobson Newcome, Esquire, 
Brianstone Square, and Marblehead, Sussex, and Sir Brian 
Newcome, of Newcome, and Park Lane, " whom to name," 
says Mr. Honeyman, with the fluent eloquence with which 
he decorated the commonest circumstances of life, " is to 
designate two of the merchant princes of the wealthiest 
city the world has ever known; and one, if not two, of 
the leaders of that aristocracy which rallies round the 
throne of the most elegant and refined of European sover- 
eigns." 

I promised Mr. Honeyman to do what I could for the 
boy; and he proceeded to take leave of his little nephew 
in my presence in terms equally eloquent, pulling out a long 
and very slender green purse, from which he extracted the 
sum of two and sixpence, which he presented to the child, 
who received the money with rather a queer twinkle in 
his blue eyes. 

After that day's school I met my little protege in the 
neighbourhood of the pastry cook's, regaling himself with 
raspberry tarts. " You must not spend all the money, sir, 
which your uncle gave you," said I, " in tarts and ginger- 
beer." 

The urchin rubbed the raspberry jam off his mouth, and 
said, " It don't matter, sir, for I've got lots more." 

"How much?" says the Grand Inquisitor: for the 
formula of interrogation used to be, when a new boy came 
to the school, "What's your name? Who's your father? 
and how much money have you got? " 

The little fellow pulled such a handful of sovereigns out 
of his pocket as might have made the tallest scholar feel a 

232 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

pang of envy. " Uncle Hobson," says he, " gave me two; 
Aunt Hobson gave me one — no, Aunt Hobson gave me 
thirty shillings; Uncle Newcome gave me three pound; 
and Aunt Ann gave me one pound five; and Aunt Honey- 
man sent me ten shillings in a letter. And Ethel wanted to 
give me a pound, only I wouldn't have it, you know; be- 
cause Ethel's younger than me, and I have plenty." 

" And who is Ethel? " I ask, smiling at the artless youth's 
confessions. 

"Ethel is my cousin," replied little Newcome; "Aunt 
Ann's daughter. There's Ethel and Alice, and Aunt Ann 
wanted the baby to be called Boadicea, only uncle wouldn't; 
and there's Barnes and Egbert and little Alfred, only he 
don't count; he's quite a baby, you know. Egbert and me 
was at school at Timpany's; he's going to Eton next half. 
He's older than me, but I can lick him." 

" And how old is Egbert? " asks the smiling senior. 

" Egbert's ten, and I'm nine, and Ethel's seven," replied 
the little chubby-faced hero, digging his hands deep into 
his trousers, and jingling all the sovereigns there. I ad- 
vised him to let me be his banker; and, keeping one out 
of his many gold pieces, he handed over the others, on 
which he drew with great liberality till his whole stock was 
expended. The school hours of the upper and under boys 
were different at that time; the little fellows coming out 
of their hall half an hour before the Fifth and Sixth Forms; 
and many a time I used to find my little blue-jacket in 
waiting, with his honest square face, and white hair, and 
bright blue eyes, and I knew that he was come to draw on 
his bank. Ere long one of the pretty blue eyes was shut 
up, and a fine black one substituted in its place. He had 
been engaged, it appeared, in a pugilistic encounter with 
a giant of his own form whom he had worsted in the com- 

233 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

bat. " Didn't I pitch into him, that's all? " says he in the 
elation of victory; and, when I asked whence the quarrel 
arose, he stoutly informed me that '' Wolf Minor, his op- 
ponent, had been bullying a little boy, and that he, the gi- 
gantic Newcome, wouldn't stand it." 

So, being called away from the school, I said " Farewell 
and God bless you," to the brave little man, who remained 
a while at the Grey Friars, where his career and troubles 
had only just begun, and lost sight of him for several years. 
Nor did we meet again until I was myself a young man 
occupying chambers in the Temple. 

Meanwhile the years of Clive's absence had slowly worn 
away for Colonel Newcome, and at last the happy time came 
which he had been longing more passionately than any pris- 
oner for liberty, or schoolboy for holiday. The Colonel 
had taken leave of his regiment. He had travelled to Cal- 
cutta; and the Commander-in-Chief announced that in 
giving to Lieutenant-Colonel Thomas Newcome, of the 
Bengal Cavalry, leave for the first time, after no less than 
thirty-four years' absence from home, he could not refrain 
from expressing his sense of the great services of this most 
•distinguished officer, who had left his regiment in a state 
of the highest discipline and efficiency. 

This kind Colonel had also to take leave of a score, at 
least, of adopted children to whom he chose to stand in the 
light of a father. He was forever whirling away in post- 
chaises to this school and that, to see Jack Brown's boys, 
of the Cavalry; or Mrs. Smith's girls, of the Civil Serv- 
ice; or poor Tom Hick's orphan, who had nobody to look 
after him now that the cholera had carried of¥ Tom and his 
wife, too. On board the ship in which he returned from 
Calcutta were a dozen of little children, some of whom he 
actually escorted to their friends before he visited his own, 

234 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

though his heart was longing for his boy at Grey Friars. 
The children at the schools seen, and largely rewarded out 
of his bounty (his loose white trousers had great pockets, 
always heavy with gold and silver, which he jingled when 
he was not pulling his moustaches, and to see the way in 
which he tipped children made one almost long to be a 
boy again) and when he had visited Miss Pinkerton's es- 
tablishment, or Doctor Ramshorn's adjoining academy at 
Chiswick, and seen little Tom Davis or little Fanny Holmes, 
the honest fellow would come home and write off straight- 
way a long letter to Tom's or Fanny's parents, far away 
in the country, whose hearts he made happy by his accounts 
of their children, as he had delighted the children them- 
selves by his affection and bounty. All the apple and 
orange-women (especially such as had babies as well as 
lollipops at their stalls), all the street-sweepers on the road 
between Nerot's and the Oriental, knew him, and were his 
pensioners. His brothers in Threadneedle Street cast up 
their eyes at the cheques which he drew. 

The Colonel had written to his brothers from Ports- 
mouth, announcing his arrival, and three words to Clive, 
conveying the same intelligence. The letter was served to 
the boy along with one bowl of tea and one buttered roll, 
of eighty such which were distributed to fourscore other 
boys, boarders of the same house with our young friend. 
How the lad's face must have flushed and his eyes bright- 
ened when he read the news! When the master of the 
house, the Reverend Mister Popkinson, came into the lodg- 
ing-room, with a good-natured face, and said, " Newcome, 
you're wanted," he knew who had come. He did not heed 
that notorious bruiser, old Hodge, who roared out, " Con- 
found you, Newcome: I'll give it you for upsetting your 
tea over my new trousers." He ran to the room where the 

235 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

stranger was waiting for him. We will shut the door, if 
you please, upon that scene. 

If Clive had not been as fine and handsome a young lad 
as any in that school or country, no doubt his fond father 
would have been just as well pleased and endowed him with 
a hundred fanciful graces; but, in truth, in looks and man- 
ners he was everything which his parent could desire. He 
was the picture of health, strength, activity, and good- 
humour. He had a good forehead shaded with a quantity 
of waving light hair; a complexion which ladies might 
envy; a mouth which seemed accustomed to laughing; and 
a pair of blue eyes that sparkled with intelligence and frank 
kindness. No wonder the pleased father could not refrain 
from looking at him. 

The bell rang for second school, and Mr. Popkinson, 
arrayed in cap and gown, came in to shake Colonel New- 
come by the hand, and to say he supposes it was to be a 
holiday for Newcome that day. He said not a word about 
Clive's scrape of the day before, and that awful row in the 
bedrooms, where the lad and three others were discovered 
making a supper off a pork pie and two bottles of prime 
old port from the Red Cow public-house in Grey Friars 
Lane. 

When the bell was done ringing, and all these busy little 
bees swarmed into their hive, there was a solitude in the 
place. The Colonel and his son walked the play-ground 
together, that gravelly flat, as destitute of herbage as the 
Arabian desert, but, nevertheless, in the. language of the 
place, called the green. They walked the green, and they 
paced the cloisters, and Clive showed his father his own 
name of Thomas Newcome carved upon one of the arches 
forty years ago. As they talked, the boy gave sidelong 
glances at his new friend, and wondered at the Colonel's 

236 



%i 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

loose trousers, long moustaches, and yellow face. He looked 
very odd, Clive thought, very odd and very kind, and like 
a gentleman, every inch of him: — not like Martin's father, 
who came to see his son lately in highlows, and a shocking 
bad hat, and actually flung coppers amongst the boys for a 
scramble. He burst out a-laughing at the exquisitely lu- 
dicrous idea of a gentleman of his fashion scrambling for 
coppers. 

And now enjoining the boy to be ready against his re- 
turn, the Colonel whirled away in his cab to the city to 
shake hands with his brothers, whom he had not seen since 
they were demure little men in blue jackets under charge 
of a serious tutor. 

He rushed into the banking house, broke into the parlour 
where the lords of the establishment were seated, and aston- 
ished these trim, quiet gentlemen by the warmth of his 
greeting, by the vigour of his handshake, and the loud tones 
of his voice, which might actually be heard by the busy 
clerks in the hall without. He knew Bryan from Hobson 
at once — that unlucky little accident in the go-cart having 
left its mark forever on the nose of Sir Bryan Newcome. 
He had a bald head and light hair, a short whisker cut to 
his cheek, a bufif waistcoat, very neat boots and hands, and 
was altogether dignified, bland, smiling, and statesmanlike. 

Hobson Newcome, Esquire, was more portly than his 
elder brother, and allowed his red whiskers to grow on his 
cheeks and under his chin. He wore thick shoes with nails 
in them, and affected the country gentleman in his appear- 
ance. His hat had a broad brim, and his ample pockets 
always contained agricultural produce, samples of bean or 
corn, or a whiplash or balls for horses. In fine, he was a 
good old country gentleman, and a better man of business 
than his more solemn brother, at whom he laughed in his 

237 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

jocular way; and said rightly that a gentleman must get 
up very early to get ahead of him. 

These gentlemen each received the Colonel In a manner 
consistent with his peculiar nature. Sir Bryan regretted 
that Lady Ann was away from London, being at Brighton 
with the children, who were all ill of the measles. Hobson 
said, " Maria can't treat you to such good company as Lady 
Ann could give you; but when will you take a day and 
come and dine with us? Let's see, to-day is Wednesday; 
to-morrow we are engaged. Friday, we dine at Judge 
Budge's; Saturday I am going down to Marblehead to 
look after the hay. Come on Monday, Tom, and I'll intro- 
duce you to the missus and the young uns." 

" I will bring Clive," says Colonel Newcome, rather dis- 
turbed at this reception. " After his illness my sister-in-law 
was very kind to him." 

" No, hang it, don't bring boys; there's no good in boys; 
they stop the talk downstairs, and the ladies don't want 
'em in the drawing-room. Send him to dine with the chil- 
dren on Sunday, if you like, and come along down with me 
to Marblehead, and I'll show you such a crop of hay as 
will make your eyes open. Are you fond of farming? " 

" I have not seen my boy for years," says the Colonel; 
" I had rather pass Saturday and Sunday with him, if you 
please, and some day we will go to Marblehead together." 

" Well, an offer's an offer. I don't know any pleasanter 
thing than getting out of this confounded city and smelling 
the hedges, and looking at the crops coming up, and passing 
the Sunday in quiet." And his own tastes being thus agri- 
cultural, the worthy gentleman thought that everybody else 
must delight in the same recreation. 

" In the winter, I hope, we shall see you at Newcome," 
says the elder brother, blandly smiling. " I can't give you 

238 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

any tiger-shooting, but I'll promise you that you shall find 
plenty of pheasants in our jungle," and he laughed very 
gently at this mild sally. 

At this moment a fair-haired young gentleman, languid 
and pale, and dressed in the height of fashion, made his 
appearance and was introduced as the Baronet's oldest son, 
Barnes Newcome. He returned Colonel Newcome's greet- 
ing with a smile, saying, " Very happy to see you, I am sure. 
You find London very much changed since you were here? 
Very good time to come, the very full of the season." 

Poor Thomas Newcome was quite abashed by his strange 
reception. Here was a man, hungry for aflfection, and 
one relation asked him to dinner next Monday, and another 
invited him to shoot pheasants at Christmas. Here was a 
beardless young sprig, who patronised him and asked him 
whether he found London was changed. As soon as possi- 
ble he ended the interview with his step-brothers, and drove 
back to Ludgate Hill, where he dismissed his cab and 
walked across the muddy pavements of Smithfield, on his 
way back to the old school where his son was, a way which 
he had trodden many a time in his own early days. There 
was Cistercian Street, and the Red Cow of his youth; there 
was the quaint old Grey Friars Square, with its blackened 
trees and garden, surrounded by ancient houses of the build 
of the last century, now slumbering like pensioners in the 
sunshine. 

Under the great archway of the hospital he could look 
at the old Gothic building; and a black-gowned pensioner 
or two crawling over the quiet square, or passing from one 
dark arch to another. The boarding-houses of the school 
were situated in the square, hard by the more ancient build- 
ings of the hospital. A great noise of shouting, crying, 
clapping forms and cupboards, treble voices, bass voices, 

239 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

poured out of the schoolboys' windows; their life, bustle, 
and gaiety contrasted strangly with the quiet of those 
old men, creeping along in their black gowns under the 
ancient arches yonder, whose struggle of life was over, 
whose hope and noise and bustle had sunk into that grey 
calm. There was Thomas Newcome arrived at the middle 
of life, standing between the shouting boys and the tottering 
seniors and in a situation to moralise upon both, had not 
his son Clive, who espied him, come jumping down the 
steps to greet his sire. Clive was dressed in his very best; 
not one of those four hundred young gentlemen had a bet- 
ter figure, a better tailor, or a neater boot. Schoolfellows, 
grinning through the bars, envied him as he walked away; 
senior boys made remarks on Colonel Newcome's loose 
clothes and long moustaches, his brown hands and tin- 
brushed hat. The Colonel was smoking a cheroot as he 
walked; and the gigantic Smith, the cock of the school, 
who happened to be looking majestically out of the window, 
was pleased to say that he thought Newcome's governor was 
a fine manly-looking fellow. 

" Tell me about your uncles, Clive," said the Colonel, 
as they walked on arm in arm. 

"What about them, sir? " asks the boy. " I don't think 
I know much." 

" You have been to stay with them. You wrote about 
them. Were they kind to you? " 

" Oh, yes, I suppose they are very kind. They always 
tipped me: only you know when I go there I scarcely ever 
see them. Mr. Newcome asks me the oftenest — two or 
three times a quarter when he's in town, and gives me a 
sovereign regular." 

" Well, he must see you to give you the sovereign/' says 
Clive's father, laughing. 

240 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

The boy blushed rather. 

"Yes. When it's time to go back to Smithfield on a 
Saturday night, I go into the dining-room to shake hands, 
and he gives it to me; but he don't speak to me much, you 
know, and I don't care about going to Bryanstone Square, 
except for the tip (of course that's important), because 
I am made to dine, with the children, and they are quite 
little ones; and a great cross French governess, who is al- 
ways crying and shrieking after them, and finding fault 
vAth them. My uncle generally has his dinner parties on 
Saturday, or goes out; and aunt gives me ten shillings and 
sends me to the play; that's better fun than a dinner party." 
Here the lad blushed again. " I used," said he, " when I 
was younger, to stand on the stairs and prig things out of 
the dishes when they came out from dinner, but I'm past 
that now. Maria (that's my cousin) used to take the sweet 
things and give 'em to the governess. Fancy! she used to 
put lumps of sugar into her pocket and eat them in the 
schoolroom! Uncle Hobson don't live in such good society 
as Uncle Newcome. You see, Aunt Hobson, she's very 
kind, you know, and all that, but I don't think she's what 
you call comme il faut." 

" Why, how are you to judge? " asks the father, amused 
at the lad's candid prattle, " and where does the difference 
lie?" 

" I can't tell you what it is, or how it is," the boy an- 
swered, " only one can't help seeing the difference. It 
isn't rank and that: only somehow there are some men 
I gentlemen and some not, and some women ladies and some 
not. There's Jones now, the fifth-form master, every man 
sees he's a gentleman, though he wears ever so old clothes; 
and there's Mr. Brown, who oils his hair, and wears rings, 
and white chokers — my eyes! such white chokers! — and 

241 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

yet we call him the handsome snob! And so about Aunt 
Maria, she's very handsome and she's very finely dressed, 
only somehow she's not the ticket, you see." 

"Oh, she's not the ticket?" says the Colonel, much 
amused. 

" Well, what I mean Is — but never mind," says the boy. 
" I can't tell you what I mean. I don't like to make fun of 
her, you know, for after all she's very kind to me; but Aunt 
Ann is different, and it seems as if what she says is more 
natural; and though she has funny ways of her own, too, 
yet somehow she looks grander," — and here the lad laughed 
again. " And do you know, I often think that as good a 
lady as Aunt Ann herself, is old Aunt Honeyman at 
Brighton— that is, in all essentials, you know? And she 
is not a bit ashamed of letting lodgings, or being poor her- 
self, as sometimes I think some of our family " 

" I thought we were going to speak no ill of them," says 
the Colonel, smiling. 

" Well, it only slipped out unawares," says Clive, laugh- 
ing, " but at Newcome when they go on about the New- 
comes, and that great ass, Barnes Newcome, gives him- 
self his airs, it makes me die of laughing. That time I 
went down to Newcome I went to see old Aunt Sarah, and 
she told me everything, and do you know, I was a little hurt 
at first, for I thought we were swells till then? And when 
I came back to school, where perhaps I had been giving 
myself airs, and bragging about Newcome, why, you know, 
I thought it was right to tell the fellows." 

"That's a man," said the Colonel, with delight; though 
had he said, " That's a boy," he had spoken more correctly. 
" That's a man," cried the Colonel; " never be ashamed of 
your father, Clive." 

"Ashamed of my father!" says Clive, looking up to him, 

242 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

and walking on as proud as a peacock. " I say," the lad 
resumed, after a pause 

" Say what you say," said the father. 

" Is that all true what's in the Peerage — in the Baronet- 
age, about Uncle Newcome and Newcome ; about the New- 
come who was burned at Smithfield; about the one that 
was at the battle of Bosworth ; and the old, old Newcome 
who was bar — that is, who was surgeon to Edward the 
Confessor, and was killed at Hastings? I am afraid it isn't; 
and yet I should like it to be true." 

" I think every man would like to come of an ancient 
and honourable race," said the Colonel in his honest way. 
" As you like your father to be an honourable man, why 
not your grandfather, and his ancestors before him? But 
if we can't inherit a good name, at least we can do our best 
to leave one, my boy; and that is an ambition which, please 
Godj you and I will both hold by." 

With this simple talk the old and young gentleman be- 
guiled their way, until they came into the western quarter 
of the town, where Hobson Newcome lived in a handsome 
and roomy mansion. Colonel Newcome was bent on pay- 
ing a visit to his sister-in-law, although as they waited to 
be let in they could not but remark through the opened win- 
dows of the dining-room that a great table was laid and 
every preparation was made for a feast. 

" My brother said he was engaged to dinner to-day," 
said the Colonel. 

'' Does Mrs. Newcome give parties when he is away?" 

"She invites all the company," answered Clive. "My 
uncle never asks any one without aunt's leave." 

The Colonel's countenance fell. " He has a great dinner, 
and does not ask his own brother!" Newcome thought. 
" Why, if he had come to India with all his family, he 

243 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

might have stayed for a year, and I should have been of- 
fended had he gone elsewhere." 

A hot menial in a red waistcoat came and opened the 
door, and without waiting for preparatory queries said, 
" Not at home." 

" It's my father, John," said Clive. " My aunt will see 
Colonel Newcome." 

" Missis is not at home," said the man. " Missis is gone 
in carriage — Not at this door! — Take them things down the 
area steps, young man! " 

This latter speech was addressed to a pastry cook's boy 
with a large sugar temple and many conical papers con- 
taining delicacies for dessert. " Mind the hice is here in 
time; or there'll be a blow-up with your governor," — and 
John struggled back, closing the door on the astonished 
Colonel. 

" Upon my life, they actually shut the door in our faces," 
said the poor gentleman. 

" The man is very busy, sir. There's a great dinner. I'm 
sure my aunt would not refuse you," Clive interposed. 
"She is very kind. I suppose it's different here from what 
it is in India. There are the children in the Square, — 
those are the girls in blue, — that's the French governess, 
the one with the yellow parasol. How d'ye do, Mary? 
How d'ye do, Fanny? This is my father, — this is your 
uncle." 

The Colonel surveyed his little nieces with that kind ex- 
pression which his face always wore when it was turned 
toward children. 

" Have you heard of your uncle in India? " he asked 
them. 

" No," says Maria. 

" Yes," says Fannie. " You know mademoiselle said that 

244 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

if we were naughty we should be sent to our uncle in India. 
I think I should like to go with you." 

" Oh, you silly child! " cries Maria. 

" Yes, I should, if Clive went, too," says little Fanny. 

"Behold madame, who arrives from her promenade!" 
mademoiselle exclaimed, and, turning round. Colonel New- 
come beheld, for the first time, his sister-in-law, a stout lady 
with fair hair and a fine bonnet and a pelisse, w^ho was re- 
clining in her barouche with the scarlet plush garments of 
her domestics blazing before and behind her. 

Clive ran towards his aunt. She bent over the carriage 
languidly towards him. She liked him. " What, you, 
Clive!" she said. " How come you away from school of 
a Thursday, sir? " 

" It is a holiday," said he. " My father is come; and 
he is come to see you." 

She bowed her head with an expression of affable sur- 
prise and majestic satisfaction. " Indeed, Clive!" she ex- 
claimed, and the Colonel stepped forward and took off his 
hat and bowed and stood bareheaded. She surveyed him 
blandly, and put forward a little hand, saying, " You have 
only arrived to-day, and you came to see me? That was 
very kind. Have you had a pleasant voyage? These are 
two of my girls. My boys are at school. I shall be so glad 
to introduce them to their uncle. This naughty boy might 
never have seen you, but that we took him home after the 
scarlet fever, and made him well, didn't we Clive? And we 
are all very fond of him, and you must not be jealous of his 
love for his aunt. We feel that we quite know you through 
him, and we know that you know us, and we hope you will 
like us. Do you think your papa will like us, Clive? Or, 
perhaps you will like Lady Ann best? Yes; you have been 
to her first, of course? Not been? Oh! because she is 

245 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

not in town." Leaning fondly on Clive's arm, mademoiselle 
standing with the children hard by, while John with his 
hat off stood at the opened door, Mrs. Newcome slowly 
uttered the above remarkable remarks to the Colonel, on 
the threshold of her house, which she never asked him to 
pass. 

"If you will come in to us about ten this evening," she 
then said, " you will find some men not undistinguished, 
who honour me of an evening. Perhaps they will be in- 
teresting to you, Colonel Newcome, as you are newly ar- 
riven in Europe. A stranger coming to London could 
scarcely have a better opportunity of seeing some of our 
great illustrations of science and literature. We have a few 
friends at dinner, and now I must go in and consult with my 
housekeeper. Good-bye for the present. Mind, not later 
than ten, as Mr. Newcome must be up betimes in the 
morning, and our parties break up early. When Clive 
is a little older I dare say we shall see him, too. Good- 
bye!" 

And again the Colonel was favoured with a shake of 
the hand, and the lady sailed up the stair, and passed in at 
the door, with not the faintest idea but that the hospitality 
which she was offering to her kinsman was of the most 
cordial and pleasant kind. 

Having met Colonel Newcome on the steps of her house, 
she ordered him to come to her evening party; and though 
he had not been to an evening party for five and thirty 
years — though he had not been to bed the night before — 
he never once thought of disobeying Mrs. Newcome's or- 
der, but was actually at her door at five minutes past ten, 
having arrayed himself, to the wonderment of Clive, and 
left the boy to talk to Mr. Binnie, a friend and fellow-pas- 
senger, who had just arrived from Portsmouth, who had 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

dined with him, and taken up his quarters at the same 
hotel. 

Well, then, the Colonel is launched in English society of 
an intellectual order, and mighty dull he finds it. During 
two hours of desultory conversation and rather meagre re- 
freshments, the only bright spot is his meeting with Charles 
Honeyman, his dead wife's brother, whom he was mighty 
glad to see. Except for this meeting there was little to 
entertain the Colonel, and as soon as possible he and Honey- 
man walked away together, the Colonel returning to his 
hotel, where he found his friend James Binnie installed in 
his room in the best arm-chair, sleeping-cosily, but he woke 
up briskly when the Colonel entered. " It is you, you gad- 
about, is it? " cried Binnie. " See what it is to have a real 
friend now. Colonel! I waited for you, because I knew 
you would want to talk about that scapegrace of yours." 

" Isn't he a fine fellow, James? " says the Colonel, light- 
ing a cheroot as he sits on the table. Was it joy, or the bed- 
room candle with which he lighted his cigar, which illu- 
minated his honest features so, and made them so to shine? 

" I have been occupied, sir, in taking the lad's moral 
measurement: and I have pumped him as successfully as 
ever I cross-examined a rogue in my court. I place his 
qualities thus: — Love of approbation, sixteen. Benevo- 
lence, fourteen. Combativeness, fourteen. Adhesiveness, 
two. Amativeness is not yet of course fully developed, 
but I expect will be prodigiously strong. The imaginative 
and reflective organs are very large; those of calculation 
weak. He may make a poet or a painter, or you may make 
a sojor of him, though worse men than him's good enough 
for that — but a bad merchant, a lazy lawyer, and a miserable 
mathematician. My opinion, Colonel, is that young scape- 
grace will give you a deal of trouble ; or would, only you 

247 



BOYS AND GIRLS /rom THACKERAY 

are so absurdly proud of him, and you think everything he 
does is perfection. He'll spend your money for you; he'll 
do as little work as need be. Fle'll get into scrapes with the 
sax. He's almost as sim.ple as his father, and that is to 
say that any rogue will cheat him; and he seems to me to 
have your obstinate habit of telling the truth. Colonel, which 
may prevent his getting on in the world; but on the other 
hand will keep him from going very v/rong. So that, 
though there is every fear for him, there's some hope and 
some consolation." 

'' What do you think of his Latin and Greek? " asked the 
Colonel. Before going out to his party Newcome had laid 
a deep scheme with Binnie, and it had been agreed that 
the latter should examine the young fellow in his humanities. 

" Wall," cries the Scot, " I find that the lad knows as 
much about Greek and Latin as I knew myself when I was 
eighteen years of age." 

I "My dear Binnie, is it possible? You, the best scholar 
in all India!" 

*>' And which amounted to exactly nothing. By the ad- 
mirable seestem purshood at your public schools, just about 
as much knowledge as he could get by three months' appli- 
cation at home. Mind ye, I don't say he would apply; it is 
most probable he would do no such thing. But, at the cost 
of — how much? two hundred pounds annually — for five 
years — he has acquired about five and twenty guineas' worth 
of classical leeterature — enough, I dare say, to enable him 
to quote Horace respectably through life, and what more do 
you want from a young man of his expectations? I think 
I should send him into the army, that's the best place for 
him — there's the least to do and the handsomest clothes to 
wear," says the little wag, daintily taking up the tail of 
his friend's coat. " In earnest now, Tom Newcome, I think 

248 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

your boy is as fine a lad as I ever set eyes on. He seems to 
have intelligence and good temper. Fie carries his letter 
of recommendation in his countenance; and with the hon- 
esty — and the rupees, mind ye, — which he inherits from 
his father, the deuce is in it if he can't make his way. What 
time's the breakfast? Eh, but it was a comfort this morning 
not to hear the holystoning on the deck. We ought to go 
into lodgings, and not fling our money out of the window of 
this hotel. We must make the young chap take us about 
and show us the town in the morning, eh, Colonel? " 

With this the jolly gentleman nodded over his candle to 
his friend, and trotted off to bed. 

The Colonel and his friend were light sleepers and early 
risers. The next morning when Binnie entered the sitting- 
room he found the Colonel had preceded him. " Hush," 
says the Colonel, putting a long finger up to his mouth, and 
advancing towards him as noiselessly as a ghost. 

"What's in the wind now?" asks the little Scot; " and 
what for have ye not got your shoes on? " 

" Clive's asleep," says the Colonel, with a countenance 
full of extreme anxiety. 

"The darling boy slumbers, does he?" said the wag. 
" Mayn't I just step in and look at his beautiful countenance 
whilst he's asleep. Colonel? " 

• "You may if you take off those confounded creaking, 
shoes," the other answered, quite gravely: and Binnie 
turned away to hide his jolly round face, which was screwed 
up with laughter. 

" Have ye been breathing a prayer over your rosy in- 
fant's slumbers, Tom? " asks Mr. Binnie. 

" And if I have, James Binnie," the Colonel said gravely, 
and his sallow face blushing somewhat, " if I have I hope 
I've done no harm. The last time I saw him asleep was nine 

249 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

years ago, a sickly little pale-faced boy, in his little cot, 
and now, sir, that I see him again, strong and handsome 
and all that a fond father can wish to see a boy, I should 
be an ungrateful villain, James, if I didn't do what you 
said just now, and thank God Almighty for restoring him 
to me." 

Binnie did not laugh any more. " By George! Tom New- 
come," said he, " you're just one of the saints of the earth. 
If all men were like you there'd be an end of both our 
trades; and there would be no fighting and no soldiering, 
no rogues, and no magistrates to catch them." The Colonel 
wondered at his friend's enthusiasm, who was not used to 
be complimentary; indeed what so usual with him as that 
simple act of gratitude and devotion about which his com- 
rade spoke to him? To ask a blessing for his boy was as 
natural to him as to wake with the sunrise, or to go to rest 
when the day was over. His first and his last thought was 
always the child. 

The two gentlemen were home in time enough to find 
Clive dressed, and his uncle arrived for breakfast. The 
Colonel said a grace over that meal ; the life was begun 
which he had longed and prayed for, and the son smiling 
before his eyes who had been in his thoughts for so many 
fond years. 

If my memory serves me right it was at about this time 
that I, the humble biographer of Mr. Clive Newcome's 
life, met him again for the first time since my school days 
at Grey Friars. 

Going to the play one night with some fellows of my 
own age, and laughing enthusiastically at the farce, we 
became naturally hungry at midnight, and a desire for 
Welch Rabbits and good old glee-singing led us to the 
" Cave of Harmony," then kept by the celebrated Hoskins, 

250 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

with whom we enjoyed such intimacy that he never failed 
to greet us with a kind nod. We also knew the three admi- 
rable glee-singers. It happened that there was a very small 
attendance at the " Cave " that night, and we were all more 
sociable and friendly because the company was select. The 
songs were chiefly of the sentimental class; such ditties 
were much in vogue at the time of which I speak. 

There came into the " Cave " a gentleman with a lean 
brown face and long black moustaches, dressed in very loose 
clothes, and evidently a stranger to the place. At least he 
had not visited it for a long time. He was pointing out 
changes to a lad who was in his company; and, calling for 
sherry and water, he listened to the music, and twirled his 
moustaches with great enthusiasm. 

At the very first glimpse of me the boy jumped up from 
the table, bounded across the room, ran to me with his hands 
out, and, blushing, said, " Don't you know me? " 

It was little Newcome, my school-fellow, whom I had 
not seen for six years, grown a fine tall young stripling 
now, with the same bright blue eyes which I remembered 
when he was quite a little boy. 

" What the deuce brings you here? " said I. 

He laughed and looked roguish. " My father — that's 
my father — would come. He's just come back from India. 
He says all the wits used to come here. I told him your 
name, and that you used to be very kind to me when I first 
went to Smithfield. I've left now: I'm to have a private 
tutor. I say, I've got such a jolly pony. It's better fun than 
old Smiffle." 

Here the whiskered gentleman, Newcome's father, strode 
across the room twirling his moustaches, and came up to 
the table where we sat, making a salutation with his hat 
in a very stately and polite manner, so that Hoskins him- 

251 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

self felt obliged to bow; the glee-singers murmured among 
themselves, and that mischievous little wag, little Nadab 
the Improvisatore, began to mimic him, feeling his imag- 
inary whiskers, after the manner of the stranger, and flap- 
ping about his pocket-handkerchief in the most ludicrous 
manner. Hoskins checked this sternly, looking towards 
Nadab, and at the same time calling upon the gents to give 
their orders. 

Newcome's father came up and held out his hand to me, 
and he spoke in a voice so soft and pleasant, and with a cor- 
diality so simple and sincere, that my laughter shrank away 
ashamed ; and gave place to a feeling much more respectful 
and friendly. 

" I have heard of your kindness, sir," says he, " to my boy. 
And whoever is kind to him is kind to me. Will you allow 
me to sit down by you? And may I beg you to try my 
cheroots? " We were friends in a minute, young Newcome 
snuggling by my side, his father opposite, to whom, after 
a minute or two of conversation, I presented my three col- 
lege friends. 

" You have come here, gentlemen, to see the wits," says 
the Colonel. " Are there any celebrated persons in the 
room? I have been five and thirty years from home, and 
want to see all there is to be seen. " 

King of Corpus (who was an incorrigible wag) was 
about to point out a half dozen of people in the room, as 
the most celebrated wits of that day; but I cut King's 
shins under the table, and got the fellow to hold his tongue, 
while Jones wrote on his card to Hoskins, hinted to him 
that a boy was in the room, and a gentleman who was quite 
a greenhorn: hence that the songs had better be carefully 
selected. 

And so they were. A lady's school might have come in, 

252 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

and have taken no harm by what happened. It was worth 
a guinea to see the simple Colonel and his delight at the 
music. He forgot all about the distinguished wits whom 
he had expected to see, in his pleasure over the glees, 
and joined in all the choruses with an exceedingly sweet 
voice. 

And now young Nadab commenced one of those surpris- 
ing feats of Improvisation with which he used to charm 
audiences. He took us all off and had rhymes pat about 
all the principal persons in the room; when he came to the 
Colonel himself, he burst out — 

A military gent I see, and while his face I scan, 
I think you'll all agree with me he came from Hindostan. 
And by his side sits laughing free a youth with curly head, 
I think you'll all agree with me that he was best in bed. 
Ritolderol, etc., etc. 

The Colonel laughed immensely at this sally, and clapped 
his son, young Clive, on the shoulder. " Hear what he says 
of you, sir? Clive, best be off to bed, my boy— ho, ho! No, 
no. We know a trick worth two of that. 'We won't go 
home till morning, till daylight does appear.' Why should 
we? Why shouldn't my boy have innocent pleasure? I 
was allowed none when I was a young chap, and the sever- 
ity was nearly the ruin of me. I must go and speak with 
that young man — the most astonishing thing I ever heard in 
my life. What's his name? Mr. Nadab? Mr. Nadab; 
sir, you have delighted me. May I make so free as to ask 
you to come and dine with me to-morrow at six. I am 
always proud to make the acquaintance of men of genius, 
and you are one or my name is not Newcome ! " 

" Sir, you do me the Hhonoiir," says Mr. Nadab, " and 
perhaps the day will come v^hen the world will do me jus- 

253 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

tice, — may I put down your Hhonoured name for my book 
of poems? " 

" Of course, my dear sir," says the enthusiastic Colonel, 
" I'll send them all over India. Put me down for six copies 
and do me the favour to bring them to-morrow when you 
come to dinner." 

And now Mr. Hoskins, asking if any gentleman would 
volunteer a song, what was our amazement when the simple 
Colonel offered to sing himself, at which the room ap- 
plauded vociferously; whilst methought poor Clive New- 
come hung down his head, and blushed as red as a peony. 

The Colonel selected the ditty of " Wapping Old Stairs," 
which charming old song he sang so pathetically that even 
the professional gentlemen buzzed a sincere applause, and 
some wags who were inclined to jeer at the beginning of 
the performance, clinked their glasses and rapped their 
sticks with quite a respectful enthusiasm. When the song 
was over, Clive held up his head too; looked round with 
surprise and pleasure in his leyes; and we, I need not say, 
backed our friend, delighted to see him come out of his 
queer scrape so triumphantly. The Colonel bowed and 
smiled with very pleasant good-nature at our plaudits. 
There was something touching in the naivete and kindness 
of the placid and simple gentleman. 

Whilst the Colonel had been singing his ballad there 
had come into the room a gentleman, by name Captain 
Costigan, who was in his usual condition at this hour of 
the night. Holding on by various tables, he had sidled 
up without accident to himself or any of the jugs and glasses 
round about him, to the table where we sat, and seated him- 
self warbling the refrain of the Colonel's song. Then hav- 
ing procured a glass of whiskey and water he gave what 
he called one of his prime songs. The unlucky wretch, 

254 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

who scarcely knew what he was doing or saying, selected 
the most offensive song in his repertoire. At the end of 
the second verse the Colonel started up, clapping on his hat, 
seizing his stick, and looking ferocious. "Silence!" he 
roared out. 

"Hear, hear!" cried certain wags at a farther table. 
"Go on, Costigan!" said others. 

" Go on! " cries the Colonel in his high voice, trembling 
with anger. " Does any gentleman say go on? Does any 
man who has a wife and sisters or children at home, say go 
on? Do you dare, sir, to call yourself a gentleman, and to 
say that you hold the King's commission, and to sit amongst 
Christians and men of honour, and defile the ears of young 
boys with this wicked balderdash?" 

" Why do you bring young boys here, old boy? " cries a 
voice of the malcontents. 

" Why? Because I thought I was coming to a society of 
gentlemen," cried out the indignant Colonel. " Because 
I never could have believed that Englishmen could meet 
together and allow a man, and an old man, so to disgrace 
himself. For shame, you old wretch! Go home to your 
bed, you hoary old sinner! And for my part, I'm not sorry 
that my son should see, for once in his life, to what shame 
and degradation and dishonour, drunkenness and whiskey 
may bring a man. Never mind the change, sir! — Curse 
the change!" says the Colonel, facing the amazed waiter. 
" Keep it till you see me in this place again; which will 
be never — by George, never!" And shouldering his stick, 
and scowling round at the company of scared bacchana- 
lians, the indignant gentleman stalked away, his boy after 
him. 

Clive seemed rather shamedfaced, but I fear the rest of 
the company looked still more foolish. For if the truth be 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

told that uplifted cane of the Colonel's had somehow fallen 
on the back of every man in the room. 

While Clive and his father are becoming better ac- 
quainted let us pass on to Brighton, and glance at the house- 
hold of that good, brisk old lady, Clive's Aunt Honeyman. 
Now Aunt Honeyman was a woman of spirit and resolution, 
and when she found her income sadly diminished by finan- 
cial reverses she brought her furniture to Brighton, also a 
faithful maid servant who had learned her letters and 
worked her first sampler under Miss Honeyman's own eye, 
and whom she adored all through her life. With this 
outfit the brisk little lady took a house, and let the upper 
floors to lodgers, and because of her personal attractions 
and her good housekeeping her rooms were seldom empty. 

On the morning when we first visit Miss Honeyman's a 
gentleman had just applied there for rooms. " Please to 
speak to mistress," says Hannah, the maid, opening the 
parlour door with a curtsey. " A gentleman about the 
apartments, mum." 

" Fife bet-rooms," says the man entering. " Six bets, 
two or dree sitting-rooms? We gome from Dr. Good- 
enough." 

"Are the apartments for you, sir?" says Miss Honey- 
man, looking up at the large gentleman. 

" For my lady," answers the man. 

" Had you not better take off your hat? " asks Miss Hon- 
eyman. 

The man grins and takes off his hat. Whereupon Miss 
Honeyman, having heard also that a German's physician 
has especially recommended Miss Honeyman's as a place 
in which one of his patients can have a change of air and 
scene, informs the man that she can let his mistress have the 
desired number of apartments. The man reports to his 

256 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

mistress, who descends to inspect the apartments, and pro- 
nounces them exceedingly neat and pleasant and exactly 
what are wanted. The baggage is forthwith ordered to be 
brought from the carriages. The little invalid, wrapped in 
his shawl, is carried upstairs as gently as possible, while 
the young ladies, the governess, the maids, are shown to 
their apartments. The eldest young lady, a slim black- 
haired young lass of thirteen, frisks about the rooms, looks 
at all the pictures, runs in and out of the veranda, tries the 
piano, and bursts out laughing at its wheezy jingle. She 
also kisses her languid little brother laid on the sofa, and 
performs a hundred gay and agile motions suited to her 
age. 

" Oh, what a piano! Why, it is as cracked as Miss Quig- 
ley's voice! " 

" My dear! " says mamma. The little languid boy bursts 
out into a jolly laugh. 

"What funny pictures, mamma! Action with Count de 
Grasse; the death of General Wolfe; a portrait of an offi- 
cer, an old officer in blue, like grandpapa; Brasenose Col- 
lege, Oxford; what a funny name." 

At the idea of Brasenose College, another laugh comes 
from the invalid. " I suppose they've all got brass noses 
there," he says; and he explodes at this joke. The poor 
little laugh ends in a cough, and mamma's travelling basket, 
which contains everything, produces a bottle of syrup, la- 
belled " Master A. Newcome. A teaspoonful to be taken 
when the cough is troublesome." 

"Oh, the delightful sea! the blue, the fresh, the ever 
free," sings the young lady, with a shake. " How much 
better is this than going home and seeing those horrid 
factories and chimneys! I love Dr. Goodenough for send- 
ing us here. What a sweet house it is. What nice rooms! " 

257 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

Presently little Miss Honeyman makes her appearance 
in a large cap bristling with ribbons, with her best chestnut 
front and her best black silk gown, on which her gold watch 
shines very splendidly. She curtseys with dignity to her 
lodger, who vouchsafes a very slight inclination of the head, 
saying that the apartments will do very well. 

" And they have such a beautiful view of the sea! " cries 
Ethel. 

" x\s if all the houses hadn't a view of the sea, Ethel! 
The price has been arranged, I think? My servants will 
require a comfortable room to dine in — by themselves 
mam, if you please. My governess and the younger chil- 
dren will dine together. My daughter dines with me — and 
my little boy's dinner will be ready at two o'clock precisely 
if you please. It is now near one." 

" Am I to understand ? " interposed Miss Honey- 
man. 

" Oh! I have no doubt we shall understand each other, 
mam," cried Lady Ann Newcome, for it was no other than 
that noble person, with her children, who had invaded the 
precincts of Miss Honeyman's home. " Dr. Goodenough 
has given me a most satisfactory account of you — more sat- 
isfactory, perhaps, than you are aware of. Breakfast and 
tea, if you please, will be served in the same manner 
as dinner, and you will have the kindness to order fresh 
milk every morning for my little boy — ass's milk. Dr. 
Goodenough has ordered ass's milk. Anything further I 
want I will communicate through the man who first spoke 
to you — and that will do." 

A heavy shower of rain was descending at this moment, 
and little Miss Floneyman, looking at her lodger, who had 
sat down and taken up her book, said, " Have your lady- 
ship's servants unpacked your trunks?" 

258 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

" What on earth, madam, have you — has that to do with 
the question? " 

" They will be put to the trouble of packing again, I 
fear. I cannot provide — three times five are fifteen — fif- 
teen separate meals for seven persons — besides those of my 
own family. If your servants cannot eat with mine, or in 
my kitchen, they and their mistress must go elsewhere. 
And the sooner the better, madam, the sooner the better! " 
says Miss Honeyman, trembling with indignation, and sit- 
ting down in a chair, spreading her silks. 

" Do you know who I am? " asks Lady Ann, rising. 

" Perfectly well, madam," says the other. " And had I 
known, you should never have come into my house, that's 
more." 

"Madam!" cries the lady, on which the poor little in- 
valid, scared and nervous, and hungry for his dinner, began 
to cry from his sofa. 

" It will be a pity that the dear little boy should be dis- 
turbed. Dear little child, I have often heard of him, and of 
you, miss," says the little householder, rising. " I will get 
you some dinner, my dear, for Clive's sake. And mean- 
while your ladyship will have the kindness to seek for 
some other apartments — for not a bit shall my fire cook for 
any one else of your company." And with this the indig- 
nant little landlady sailed out of the room. 

"Gracious goodness! Who is the woman?" cries Lady 
Ann. " I never was so insulted in my life." 

" Oh, mamma, it was you began! " says downright Ethel. 
" That is — Hush, Alfred dear, — Hush my darling! " 

"Oh, it was mamma began! I'm so hungry! I'm so 
hungry! " howled the little man on the sofa, or off it rather, 
for he was now down on the ground kicking away the 
shawls which enveloped him. 

259 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

"What is it, my boy? What is it, my blessed darling? 
You shall have your dinner! Give her all, Ethel. There 
are the keys of my desk, there's my watch, there are my 
rings. Let her take my all. The monster! The child 
must live! It can't go away in such a storm as this. Give 
me a cloak, a parasol, anything — I'll go forth and get a 
lodging. I'll beg my bread from house to house, if this 
fiend refuses me. Eat the biscuits, dear! A little of the 
syrup, Alfred darling; it's very nice, love, and come to your 
old mother — your poor old mother." 

Alfred roared out, "No, it's not n — ice; it's n-a-a-sty! 
I won't have syrup. I ivill have dinner." The mother, 
whose embraces the child repelled with infantine kicks, 
plunged madly at the bells, rang them all four vehemently, 
and ran downstairs towards the parlour, whence Miss Hon- 
eyman was issuing. 

The good lady had not at first known the names of her 
lodgers, until one of the nurses intrusted with the care of 
Master Alfred's dinner informed her that she was enter- 
taining Lady Ann Newcome; and that the pretty girl was 
the fair Miss Ethel; the little sick boy, the little Alfred 
of whom his cousin spoke, and of whom Clive had made 
a hundred little drawings in his rude way, as he drew 
everybody. Then bidding Sally run off to St. James Street 
for a chicken, she saw it put on the spit, and prepared a 
bread sauce, and composed a batter-pudding, as she only 
knew how to make batter puddings. Then she w^nt to ' 
array herself in her best clothes, as we have seen; then she 
came to wait upon Lady Ann, not a little flurried as to 
the result of that queer interview; then she whisked out 
of the drawing-room, as before has been shown; and, find- 
ing the chicken roasted to a turn, the napkin and tray 
ready spread by Hannah the neat-handed, she was bringing 

260 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

them up to the little patient when the frantic parent met 
her on the stair. 

"Is it — is it for my child?" cried Lady Ann, reeling 
against the bannister. 

" Yes, it's for the child," says Miss Honeyman, tossing 
up her head. " But nobody else has anything in the house." 

"God bless you! God bless you! A mother's bl — 1-es- 
s-ings go with you," gurgled the lady, who was not, it must 
be confessed, a woman of strong moral character. 

It was good to see the little man eating the fowl. Ethel, 
who had never cut anything in her young existence, except 
her fingers now and then with her brother's and her gov- 
erness's penknives, bethought her of asking Miss Honey- 
man to carve the chicken. Lady Ann, with clasped hands 
and streaming eyes, sat looking on at the ravishing scene. 

" Why did you not let us know you were Clive's aunt? " 
Ethel asked, putting out her hand. The old lady took hers 
very kindly, and said, " Because you didn't give me time, 
— and do you love Clive, my dear? " 

The reconciliation between Miss Honeyman and her 
lodger was perfect, and for a brief season Lady Ann New- 
come was in rapture with her new lodgings and every per- 
son and thing which they contained. The drawing-rooms 
were fitted with the greatest taste; the dinner was exquisite; 
were there ever such delicious veal cutlets, such fresh 
French beans? 

" Indeed they were very good," said Miss Ethel, " I am 
so glad you like the house, and Clive, and Miss Honeyman." 

Ethel's mother was constantly falling in love with new 
acquaintances; so these raptures were no novelty to her 
daughter. Ethel had had so many governesses, all darlings 
during the first week, and monsters afterwards, that the 
poor child possessed none of the accomplishments of her 

261 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

age. She could not play on the piano; she could not speak 
French well; she could not tell you when gunpowder was 
invented; she had not the faintest idea of the date of the 
Norman Conquest, or whether the earth went round the 
sun, or vice versa. She did not know the number of counties 
in England, Scotland and Wales, let alone Ireland; she did 
not know the difference between latitude and longitude. 
She had had so many governesses; their accounts differed; 
poor Ethel was bewildered by a multiplicity of teachers, 
and thought herself a monster of ignorance. They gave 
her a book at a Si\nday school, and little girls of eight 
years old answered questions of which she knew nothing. 
The place swam before her. She could not see the sun 
shining on their fair flaxen heads and pretty faces. The 
rosy little children, holding up their eager hands and cry- 
ing the answer to this question and that, seemed mocking 
her. She seemed to read in the book, " Oh, Ethel, you dunce, 
dunce, dunce! " She went home silent in the carriage, and 
burst into bitter tears on her bed. Naturally a haughty 
girl of the highest spirit, resolute and imperious, this little 
visit to the parish school taught Ethel lessons more valuable 
than ever so much arithmetic and geography. 

When Ethel was thirteen years old she had grown to be 
such a tall girl that she overtopped her companions by a 
head or more, and morally perhaps, also, felt herself too 
tall for their society. " Fancy myself," she thought, " dress- 
ing a doll like Lily Putland, or wearing a pinafore like 
Lucy Tucker!" She did not care for their sports. She 
could not walk with them; it seemed as if everyone stared; 
nor dance with them at the academy; nor attend the Cours 
de Litterature Universelle et de Science Comprehensive 
of the professor then the mode. The smallest girls took 
her up in the class. She was bewildered by the multitude of 

262 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

things they bade her learn. At the youthful little assem- 
blies of her sex, when, under the guide of their respected 
governesses, the girls came to tea at six o'clock, dancing, 
charades, and so forth, Ethel herded not with the children 
of her own age, nor yet with the teachers who sat apart 
at these assemblies, imparting to each other their little 
wrongs. But Ethel romped with the little children, the 
rosy little trots, and took them on her knees, and told them 
a thousand stories. By these she was adored, and loved 
like a mother almost, for as such the hearty, kindly girl 
showed herself to them; but at home she was alone, and 
intractable, and did battle with the governesses, and over- 
came them one after another. 

While Lady Ann Newcome and her children were at 
Brighton, Lady Kew, mother of Lady Ann, was also stay- 
ing there, but refused to visit the house in which her daugh- 
ter was stopping for fear that she herself might contract 
the disease from which her grandchildren were recovering. 
She received news of them, however, through her grand- 
son, Lord Kew, and his friend Jack Belsize, who enjoyed 
dining with the old lady whenever they were given the op- 
portunity. Having met their cousins one day before dining 
with Lady Kew their news was most interesting and en- 
thusiastic. 

" That little chap who has just had the measles — he's a 
dear little brick," said Jack Belsize. " And as for Miss 
Ethel " 

" Ethel is a trump, mam," says Lord Kew, slapping his 
hand on his knee. 

" Ethel is a brick, and Alfred is a trump, I think you 
say," remarks Lady Kew, " and Barnes is a snob. This is 
very satisfactory to know." 

" We met the children out to-day," cries the enthusiastic 

263 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

Kew, " as I was driving Jack in the drag, and I got out and 
talked to 'em. The little fellow wanted a drive and I said 
I would drive him and Ethel, too, if she would come. 
Upon my word she's as pretty a girl as you can see on a 
summer's day. And the governess said, no, of course; gov- 
ernesses always do. But I said I was her uncle, and Jack 
paid her such a fine compliment that she finally let the 
children take their seats beside me, and Jack went behind. 
We drove on to the Downs; my horses are young,. and when 
they get on the grass they are as if they were mad. They 
ran away, ever so far, and I thought the carriage must 
upset. The poor little boy, who has lost his pluck in the 
fever, began to cry; but that young girl, though she was 
as white as a sheet, never gave up for a moment, and sat in 
her place like a man. We met nothing, luckily; and I 
pulled the horses in after a mile or two, and I drove 'em 
into Brighton as quiet as if I had been driving a hearse. 
And that little trump of an Ethel, what do you think she 
said? She said: * I was not frightened, but you must not 
tell mamma.' My aunt, it appears, was in a dreadful com- 
motion. I ought to have thought of that." 

There is a brother of Sir Brian Newcome's staying with 
them, Lord Kew perceives; an East India Colonel, a very 
fine-looking old boy. He was on the lookout for them, and 
when they came in sight he despatched a boy who was 
with him, running like a lamplighter, back to their aunt to 
say all was well. And he took little Alfred out of the car- 
riage, and then helped out Ethel, and said, " My dear, you 
are too pretty to scold; but you have given us all a great 
fright." And then he made Kew and Jack a low bow, and 
stalked into the lodgings. Then they went up and made 
their peace and were presented in form to the Colonel 
and his youthful cub. 

264 



fr! 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

" As fine a fellow as I ever saw," cries Jack Belsize. " The 
young chap is a great hand at drawing — upon my life the 
best drawings I ever saw. And he was making a picture 
for little What-do-you-call-'im, and Miss Newcome was 
looking over them. And Lady Ann pointed out the group 
to me, and said how pretty it was." 

In consequence of this conversation, which aroused her 
curiosity, Lady Kew sent a letter that night to Lady Ann 
Newcome, desiring that Ethel should be sent to see her 
grandmother; Ethel, who was no weakling in character 
despite her youth, and who always rebelled against her 
grandmother and always fought on her Aunt Julia's side 
when that amiable invalid lady, who lived with her mother, 
was oppressed by the dominating older woman. 

From the foregoing facts we gather that Thomas New- 
come had not been many weeks in England before he fav- 
oured good little Miss Honeyman with a visit, to her great 
delight. You may be sure that the visit was an event in 
her life. And she was especially pleased that it should 
occur at the time when the Colonel's kinsfolk were staying 
under her roof. On the day of the Colonel's arrival all 
the presents which Newcome had ever sent his sister-in-law 
from India had been taken out of the cotton and lavender 
in which the faithful creature kept them. It was a fine 
hot day in June, but I promise you Miss Honeyman wore 
her blazing scarlet Cashmere shawl; her great brooch, rep- 
resenting the Taj of Agra, was in her collar; and her 
bracelets decorated the sleeves round her lean old hands, 
which trembled with pleasure as they received the kind 
grasp of the Colonel of colonels. How busy those hands 
had been that morning! What custards they had whipped I 
What a triumph of pie-crusts they had achieved! Before 
Colonel Newcome had been ten minutes in the house the 

265 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

celebrated veal-cutlets made their appearance. Was not 
the whole house adorned in expectation of his coming? 
The good woman's eyes twinkled, the kind old hand and 
voice shook, as, holding up a bright glass of Madeira, Miss 
Honeyman drank the Colonel's health. " I promise you, 
my dear Colonel," says she, nodding her head, adorned with 
a bristling superstructure of lace and ribbons, " I promise 
you, that I can drink your health in good wine!" The 
wine was of his own sending, and so were the China fire- 
screens, and the sandal-wood work-box, and the ivory card 
case, and those magnificent pink and white chessmen, 
carved like little sepoys and mandarins, with the castles on 
elephants' backs, George the Third and his queen in pink 
ivory against the Emperor of China and lady in white — 
the delight of Clive's childhood, the chief ornament of the 
old spinster's sitting-room. 

Miss Honeyman's little feast was pronounced to be the 
perfection of cookery; and when the meal was over, came 
a noise of little feet at the parlour door, which being 
opened, there appeared: first, a tall nurse with a dancing 
baby; second and third, two little girls with little frocks, 
little trowsers, long ringlets, blue eyes, and blue ribbons to 
match; fourth. Master Alfred, now quite recovered from 
his illness and holding by the hand, fifth, Miss Ethel New- 
come, blushing like a rose. 

Hannah, grinning, acted as mistress of the ceremonies, 
calling out the names of " Miss Newcome, Master New- 
come, to see the Colonel, if you please, ma'am," bobbing 
a curtsey, and giving a knowing nod to Master Clive, as 
she smoothed her new silk apron. Miss Ethel did not 
cease blushing as she advanced towards her uncle; and the 
honest campaigner started up, blushing too. Mr. Clive 
rose also, as little Alfred, of whom he was a great friend, 

266 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

ran towards him. Clive rose, laughed, nodded at Ethel, 
and ate ginger-bread nuts all at the same time. As for 
Colonel Thomas Newcome and his niece, they fell in love 
with each other instantaneously, like Prince Camaralzaman 
and the Princess of China. 

" Mamma has sent us to bid you welome to England, 
uncle," says Miss Ethel, advancing, and never thinking for 
a moment of laying aside that fine blush which she brought 
into the room, and which was her pretty symbol of youth 
.and modesty and beauty. 

He took a little slim white hand and laid it down on his 
brown palm, where it looked all the whiter; he cleared 
the grizzled moustache from his mouth, and stooping down 
he kissed the little white hand with a great deal of grace 
and dignity, after which he was forever the humble and 
devoted admirer of that bright young girl. 

Raising himself from his salute, he heard a pretty little 
infantile chorus. "How do you do, uncle?" said girls 
number two and three, while the dancing baby in the arms 
of the bobbing nurse babbled a welcome. Alfred looked 
up for a while at his uncle in the white trousers, and then 
instantly proposed that Clive should make some drawings; 
and was on his knees at the next moment. He was always 
climbing on somebody or something, or winding over 
chairs, curling through bannisters, standing on somebody's 
head, or his own head; as his convalescence advanced, his 
breakages were fearful. Miss Honeyman and Hannah 
talked about his dilapidations for years after. When he 
was a jolly young officer in the Guards, and came to see 
them at Brighton, they showed him the blue dragon Chayny 
jar on which he would sit, and over which he cried so 
fearfully upon breaking it. 

When this little party had gone out smiling to take its 

267 



BOYS AND GIRLS frorn THACKERAY 

walk on the sea shore, the Colonel from his balcony watched 
the slim figure of pretty Ethel, looked fondly after her, 
and as the smoke of his cigar floated in the air, formed a 
fine castle in it, whereof Clive was Lord, and Ethel Lady. 

" What a frank, generous, bright young creature is yon- 
der!" thought he. " How cheering and gay she is; how 
good to Miss Honeyman, to whom she behaved with just 
the respect that was the old lady's due. How affectionate 
with her brothers and sisters! What a sweet voice she 
had! What a pretty little white hand it is! When she 
gave it me, it looked like a little white bird lying in 
mine." 

Thus mused the Colonel, upon the charms of the young 
girl who was henceforth to occupy the first place in his 
affection. 

His admiration for her might have been still further 
heightened had he been at Lady Ann's breakfast table some 
four or five weeks later, when Lady Ann and her nursery 
had just returned to London, little Alfred being perfectly 
set up by a month of Brighton air. Barnes Newcome had 
just discovered an article in the Newcome Independent 
commenting warmly upon a visit which Colonel Newcome 
and Clive had recently paid to Newcome, the object of that 
visit having been the Colonel's desire to gladden the eyes 
of his old nurse Sarah with a sight of him. Inhabitants of 
Newcome, feeling that the sam.e Sarah Mason, who was a 
much respected member of the community, was much neg- 
lected by her rich and influential relatives in London, took 
great delight in commenting upon the Colonel's attention 
to the aged woman. The article in the Independent on that 
subject was anything but pleasing to the family pride of 
Mr. Barnes, who remarked in a sneering tone, " My uncle 
the Colonel, and his amiable son, have been paying a visit 

268 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

to Newcome. That is the news which the paper announces 
triumphantly," said Mr. Barnes. 

" You are always sneering about our uncle," broke in 
Ethel, impetuously, " and saying unkind things about Clive. 
Our uncle is a dear, good, kind man, and I love him. He 
came to Brighton to see us, and went out every day for 
hours and hours with Alfred; and Clive, too, drew pictures 
for him. And he is good, and kind, and generous, and 
honest as his father. Barnes is always speaking ill of him 
behind his back; and Miss Honeyman is a dear little old 
woman too. Was not she kind to Alfred, mamma, and did 
not she make him nice jelly? " 

" Did you bring some of Miss Honeyman's lodging- 
house cards with you, Ethel?" sneered her brother, " and 
had we not better hang up one or two in Lombard Street; 
hers and our other relation's, Mrs. Mason?" 

" My darling love, who is Mrs. Mason? " asks Lady 
Ann. 

" Another member of the family, ma'am. She was 
cousin " 

" She was no such thing, sir," roars Sir Brian. 

" She was relative and housemaid of my grandfather 
during his first marriage. She has retired into private life 
in her native town of Newcome. The Colonel and young 
Clive have been spending a few days with their elderly 
relative. It's all here in the paper, by Jove! " Mr. Barnes 
clenched his fist and stamped upon the newspaper with 
much energy. 

" And so they should go down and see her, and so the 
Colonel should love his nurse and not forget his relations 
if they are old and poor! " cries Ethel, with a flush on her 
face, and tears starting in her eyes. " The Colonel went to 
her like a kind, dear, good brave uncle as he is. The very 

269 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

day I go to Newcome I'll go to see her." She caught a 
look of negation in her father's eye. " I will go — that is, 
if papa will give me leave," says Miss Ethel, adding simply, 
" if we had gone sooner there would not have been all this 
abuse of us in the papers." To which statement her worldly 
father and brother perforce agreeing, we may congratulate 
good old nurse Sarah upon adding to the list of her friends 
such a frank, open-hearted, high-spirited young woman as 
Miss Ethel Newcome. 

In spite of the notoriety given him in the newspapers 
by his visit to Nurse Sarah, at his native place, he still re- 
mained in high favour with Sir Brian Newcome's family, 
where he paid almost daily visits,, and was received with 
afifection at least by the ladies and children of the house. 
Who was it that took the children to Astley's but Uncle 
Newcome? I saw him there in the midst of a cluster of 
these little people, all children together, the little girls, Sir 
Brian's daughters, holding each by a finger of his hands, 
young Masters Alfred and Edward clapping and hurrahing 
by his side; while Mr. Clive and Miss Ethel sat in the back 
of the box enjoying the scene, but with that decorum which 
belonged to their superior age and gravity. As for Clive, 
he was in these matters much older than the grizzled old 
warrior his father. It did one good to hear the Colonel's 
honest laughs at Clown's jokes, and to see the tenderness 
and simplicity with which he watched over this happy 
brood of young ones. How lavishly did he supply them 
with sweetmeats between the acts! There he sat in the 
midst of them, and ate an orange himself with perfect sat- 
isfaction, and was eager to supply any luxury longed for by 
his young companions. 

The Colonel's organ of benevolence was so' large that he 
would have liked to administer bounties to the young folks 

270 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

his nephews and nieces in Brianstone Square, as well as to 
their cousins in Park Lane; but Mrs. Newcome was a 
great deal too virtuous to admit of such spoiling of children. 
She took the poor gentleman to task for an attempt upon 
her boys when those lads came home for their holidays, 
and caused them ruefully to give back the shining gold sov- 
ereigns with which their uncle had thought to give them a 
treat. So the Colonel was obliged to confine his benevo- 
lence to that branch of the family where it was graciously 
accepted. 

Meanwhile the Colonel had a new interest to absorb his 
attention. He had taken a new house at 120 Fitzroy Square 
in connection with that Indian friend of his, Mr. Binnie. 
The house being taken, there was fine amusement for Clive, 
Mr. Binnie, and the Colonel, in frequenting sales, in inspec- 
tion of upholsterers' shops, and the purchase of furniture 
for the new mansion. There were three masters with four 
or five servants under them. Irons for the Colonel and 
his son, a smart boy with boots for Mr. Binnie; Mrs. Irons 
to cook and keep house, with a couple of maids under her. 
The Colonel himself was great at making hash mutton, hot- 
pot, and curry. What cosy pipes did we not smoke in the 
dining-room, in the drawing-room, or where we would! 
What pleasant evenings did we not have together. 

Clive had a tutor — Grindley of Corpus — with whom the 
young gentleman did not fatigue his brains very much, his 
great talent lying decidedly in drawing. He sketched the 
horses, he sketched the dogs, all the servants, from the 
bleer-eyed boot-boy to the rosy cheeked lass whom the 
housekeeper was always calling to come downstairs. He 
drew his father in all postures, and jolly little Mr. Binnie 
too. Young Ridley, known to his young companions as 
J. J., was his daily friend now, to the great joy of that 

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BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

young man, who considered Clive Newcome to be the most 
splendid, fortunate, beautiful, high-born and gifted youth 
in the world. What generous boy in his time has not 
worshipped somebody? Before the female enslaver makes 
her appearance, every lad has a friend of friends, a crony 
of cronies, to whom he writes immense letters in vacation, 
whom he cherishes in his hearts of hearts; whose sister he 
proposes to marry in after life; whose purse he shares; for 
whom he will take a thrashing if need be; who is his 
hero, Clive was John James's youthful divinity; when he 
wanted to draw Thaddeus of Warsaw, a Prince, Ivanhoe, 
or some one splendid and egregious, it was Clive he took 
for a model. His heart leapt when he saw the young fel- 
low. He would walk cheerfully to Grey Friars with a 
letter or message for C. on the chance of seeing him ajid 
getting a kind word from him or a shake of the hand. 
The poor lad was known by the boys as Newcome's Punch. 
He was all but hunchback, long and lean in the arm; sal- 
low, with a great forehead and waving black hair, and 
large melancholy eyes. But his genius for drawing was 
enormous, which fact Clive fully appreciated. Because of 
J. J.'s admiration for Clive it was his joy to be with Clive 
constantly; and after Grindley's classics and mathematics 
in the morning, the young men would attend Gandish's 
Drawing Academy, together. 

" Oh," says Clive, if you talk to him now about those 
early days, "it was a jolly time! I do not believe there 
was any young fellow in London so happy." 

Clive had many conversations with his father as to the 
profession which he should follow. As regarded mathe- 
matical and classical learning, the elder Newcome was 
forced to admit that out of every hundred boys there were 
fifty as clever as his own, and at least fifty more industrious; 

272 



1] 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

the army in time of peace Colonel Newcome thought a bad 
trade for a young fellow so fond of ease and pleasure as 
his son. His delight in the pencil was manifest to all. Were 
not his school books full of caricatures of the masters? 
While his tutor was lecturing him, did he not draw Grind- 
ley instinctively under his very nose? A painter Clive was 
determined to be, and nothing else; and Clive, being then 
some sixteen years of age, began to study art under the em- 
inent Mr. Gandish of Soho. 

It was that well-known portrait painter, Andrew Smee, 
Esq., R. A., who recommended Gandish to Colonel New- 
come one day when the two gentleman met at dinner at 
Lady Ann Newcome's. Mr. Smee happened to examine 
some of Clive's drawings, which the young fellow had 
executed for his cousins. Clive found no better amuse- 
ment than in making pictures for them and would cheer- 
fully pass evening after evening in that direction. He had 
made a thousand sketches of Ethel before a year was over; 
a year every day of which seemed to increase the attractions 
of the fair young creature. Also, of course Clive drew 
Alfred and the nursery in general, Aunt Ann and the Blen- 
heim spaniels, the majestic John bringing in the coal-scut- 
tle, and all persons or objects in that establishment with 
which he was familiar. 

"What a genius the lad has," the complimentary Mr. 
Smee averred; "what a force and individuality there is 
in all his drawings! Look at his horses! Capital, by Jove, 
capital! And Alfred on his pony, and Miss Ethel in her 
Spanish hat, with her hair flowing in the wind! I must 
take this sketch, I positively must now, and show it to 
Landseer." 

And the courtly artist daintily enveloped the drawing in 
a sheet of paper, put it away in his hat, and vowed sub- 

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BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

sequently that the great painter had been delighted with 
the young man's performance. Smee was not only charmed 
with Clive's skill as an artist, but thought his head would 
be an admirable one to paint. Such a rich complexion, 
such fine turns in his hair! Such eyes! To see real blue 
eyes was so rare now-a-days! And the Colonel too, if the 
Colonel would but give him a few sittings, the grey uniform 
of the Bengal Cavalry, the silver lace, the little bit of red 
ribbon just to warm up the picture! It was seldom, Mr. 
Smee declared, that an artist could get such an opportunity 
for colour. But no cajoleries could induce the Colonel to 
sit to any artist save one. There hangs in Clive's room now, 
a head, painted at one sitting, of a man rather bald, with 
hair touched with grey, with a large moustache and a sweet 
mouth half smiling beneath it, and melancholy eyes! Clive 
shows that portrait of their grandfather to his children, and 
tells them that the whole world never saw a nobler gentle- 
man. 

Well, then; Clive having decided to become an artist, 
on a day marked with a white stone, Colonel Newcome 
with his son and Mr. Smee, R. A., walked to Gandish's 
and entered the would-be artist on the roll call of that 
famous academy, and of J. J. as well, for the Colonel had 
insisted upon paying his expenses as an art student together 
with his son. 

Mr. Gandish was an excellent master and the two lads 
made great progress under his excellent training. Clive 
used to give droll accounts of the young disciples at Gan- 
dish's, who were of various ages and conditions, and in 
whose company the young fellow took his place with that 
good temper and gaiety which seldom deserted him and 
put him at ease wherever his fate led him. Not one of the 
Gandishites but liked Clive, and at that period of his 

274 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

existence he enjoyed himself in all kinds of ways, making 
himself popular with dancing folks and with drawing 
folks, and the jolly king of his company everywhere. He 
gave entertainments in the rooms in Fitzroy Square which 
were devoted to his use, inviting his father and Mr. Binnie 
now and then, but the good Colonel did not often attend 
those parties. He saw that his presence rather silenced the 
young men, and went away to play his rubber of whist at 
the club. And although time hung a bit heavily on the 
good Colonel's hands, now that Clive's interests were sep- 
arate from his own, yet of nights as he heard Clive's com- 
panions tramping by his bedchamber door, where he lay 
wakeful within, he was happy to think his son was happy. 
As for Clive, those were glorious days for him. If he 
was successful in the Academy, he was doubly victorious 
out of it. His person was handsome, his courage high, his 
gaiety and frankness delightful and winning. His money 
was plenty and he spent it like a young king. He was not 
the most docile of Mr. Gandish's pupils, and if the truth 
must be told about him, though one of the most frank, gen- 
erous and kind-hearted persons, was somewhat haughty and 
imperious. He had been known to lament since that he 
was taken from school too early where a further course of 
thrashings would, he believed, have done him good. He 
lamented that he was not sent to college, where if a young 
man receives no other discipline at least he meets his equals 
in society and assuredly finds his betters; whereas in Mr. 
Gandish's studio our young gentleman scarcely found a 
comrade that was not in one way or other his flatterer, his 
inferior, his honest or dishonest admirer. The influence of 
his family's rank and wealth acted more or less on all these 
simple folks, who would run on his errands and vied with 
each other winning his favour. His very goodness of heart 

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BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

rendered him a more easy prey to their flattery, and his 
kind and jovial disposition led him into company from 
which he had much better have been away. In fact, as 
the Colonel did not attempt in any way to check him in 
his youthful career of extravagance and experiences which 
were the result of an excessive high spirit, our young gen- 
tleman at this time brought down upon himself much ad- 
verse criticism for his behaviour, especially from his uncles. 
Because of this and other reasons there was not much 
friendliness exhibited by the several branches of the family 
for Clive and his father. Colonel Newcome, in spite of 
coldness, felt it his duty to make constant attempts to re- 
main on friendly terms at least with the wives of his step- 
brothers. But after he had called twice or thrice upon his 
sister-in-law in Brianstone Square, bringing as was his wont 
a present for this little niece or a book for that, Mrs. New- 
come gave him to understand that the occupation of an 
English matron would not allow her to pass the mornings 
in idle gossip, and with curtseys and fine speeches actually 
bowed her brother out of doors; and the honest gentleman 
meekly left her, though with bewilderment as he thought 
of the different hospitality to which he had been accustomed 
in the East, where no friend's house was ever closed to 
him, where no neighbour was ?o busy but he had time to 
make Thomas Newcome welcome. 

When Hobson Newcome's boys came home for the holi- 
days, their kind uncle was for treating them to the sights 
of the town, but here Virtue again interposed, and laid his 
interdict upon pleasure. " Thank you, very much, my 
dear Colonel," says Virtue; "there never was surely such 
a kind, affectionate, unselfish creature as you are, and so 
indulgent for children, but my boys and yours are brought 
up on a very different plan. Excuse me for saying that I 

276 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

do not think it is advisable that they should even see too 
much of each other. Clive's company is not good for 
them." 

" Great heavens, Maria! " cries the Colonel, starting up, 
" do you mean that my boy's society is not good enough for 
any boy alive? " 

Maria turned very red; she had said not more than she 
meant, but more than she meant to say. " My dear Colonel, 
how hot we are! how angry you Indian gentlemen become 
with us poor women! Your boy is much older than mine. 
He lives with artists, with all sorts of eccentric people. 
Our children are bred on quite a dijferent plan. Hobson 
will succeed his father in the bank, and dear Samuel, I 
trust, will go into the church. I told you before the views 
I had regarding the boys ; but it was most kind of you to 
think of them — most generous and kind." 

" That nabob of ours is a queer fish," Hobson Newcome 
remarked to his nephew Barnes. " He is as proud a3 
Lucifer; he is always taking huff about one thing or the 
other. He went off in a fume the other night because your 
aunt objected to his taking the boys to the play. And then 
he flew out about his boy, and said that my wife insulted 
him! I used to like that boy. Before his father came he 
was a good lad enough — a jolly, brave little fellow. But 
since he has taken this madcap freak of turning painter 
there is no understanding the chap. I don't care what a 
fellow is, if he is a good fellow, but a painter is no trade at 
all! I don't like it, Barnes!" 

To Lady Ann Newcome the Colonel's society was more 
welcome than to her sister-in-law, and the affectionate gen- 
tleman never tired of doing kindnesses for her children, 
and consoled himself as best he might for Clive's absences 
with his nephews and nieces, especially with Ethel, for 

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BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

whom his admiration conceived at first sight never dimin- 
ished. He found a fine occupation in breaking a pretty little 
horse for her, of which he made her a present, and there was 
no horse in the Park that was so handsome, and surely no girl 
who looked more beautiful than Ethel Newcome with her 
broad hat and red ribbon, with her thick black locks waving 
round her bright face, galloping along the ride on " Bhurt- 
pore." Occasionally Clive was at their riding-parties, but 
Ethel rallied him and treated him with such distance and 
dignity, at the same time looking fondly and archly at her 
uncle, that Clive set her down as a very haughty, spoiled, 
aristocratic young creature. In fact, the two young people 
were too much alike in disposition to agree perfectly, and 
Ethel's parents were glad that it was so. 

It was pleasant to watch the kind old face of Clive's 
father, that sweet young blushing lady by his side, as the 
two rode homewards at sunset talking happily together. 
^ Ethel wanted to know about battles; about lover's lamps, 
which she had read of in " Lalla Rookh." " Have you ever 
seen them, uncle, floating down the Ganges of a night? 
About Indian widows, did you actually see one burning, 
and hear her scream as you rode up?" 

She wonders whether he will tell her anything about 
Clive's mother; how she must have loved Uncle Newcome! 
Rambling happily from one subject to another Ethel com- 
mands: "Next year, when I am presented at Court, you 
must come, too, sir! I insist upon it, you must come, 
too!" 

" I will order a new uniform, Ethel," says her uncle. 

The girl laughs. " When little Egbert took hold of your 
sword, and asked you how many people you had killed, 
do you know I had the same question in my mind? I 
thought perhaps the King would knight you instead of that 

278 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

horrid little Sir Danby Jilks, and I won't have you knighted 
any more! " 

The Colonel, laughing, says he hopes Egbert won't ask 
Sir Danby Jilks how many men he has killed; then think- 
ing the joke too severe upon Sir Danby, hastens to narrate 
some anecdotes about the courage of surgeons in general. 
Ethel declares that her uncle always will talk of other 
people's courage, and never say a word about his own. So 
the pair talked kindly on, riding homewards through the 
pleasant summer twilight. Mamma had gone out to dinner 
and there were cards for three parties afterward. 

" Oh, how I wish it was next year! " says Miss Ethel. 

Many a splendid assembly and many a brilliant next 
year will the young creature enjoy; but in the midst of 
her splendour and triumphs she will often think of that 
quiet happy season before the world began for her, and 
of that dear old friend on whose arm she leaned while she 
was yet a young girl. 

On account of the ugly rumours spread abroad concern- 
ing young Clive's extravagant habits and gaiety of living, 
also on account of the profession he had chosen, Sir Bryan 
Newcome's family preferred to have young Clive see as 
little of his handsome Cousin Ethel as possible, and Ethel's 
brother, Barnes, whose hatred for Clive was not untinged 
by jealousy, was the most vigorous of the family in spread- 
ing disagreeable reports about his cousin, whom he spoke 
of as an impudent young puppy. 

Even old Lady Kew was particularly rude to Colonel 
Newcome and Clive. On Ethel's birthday she had a small 
party chiefly of girls of her own age who came and played 
and sang together and enjoyed such mild refreshments as 
sponge cake, jellies, tea, and the like. The Colonel, who 
was invited to this little party, sent a fine present to his 

279 



BOYS AND_ GIRLS from THACKERAY 

favourite Ethel; and Clive and his friend J. J. made a 
funny series of drawings, representing the life of a young 
lady as they imagined it, and drawing her progress from 
her cradle upwards: now engaged with her doll, then 
with her dancing master; now marching in her back- 
board; now crying over her German lessons; and dressed 
for her first ball finally, and bestowing her hand upon a 
dandy of preternatural ugliness, who was kneeling at her 
feet as the happy man. This picture was the delight of the 
laughing, happy girls; except, perhaps, the little cousins 
from Brianstone Square, who were invited to Ethel's party, 
but were so overpowered by the prodigious new dresses in 
which their mamma had attired them that they could ad- 
mire nothing but their rustling pink frocks, their enormous 
sashes, their lovely new silk stockings. 

Lady Kew, coming to London, attended on the party, and 
presented her granddaughter with a sixpenny pincushion. 
The Colonel had sent Ethel a beautiful little gold watch 
and chain. Her aunt had complimented her with that 
refreshing work, " Allison's History of Europe," richly 
bound. Lady Kew's pincushion made rather a poor figure 
among the gifts, whence probably arose her ladyship's ill- 
humour. 

Ethel's grandmother became exceedingly testy, when, the 
Colonel arriving, Ethel ran up to him and thanked him for 
the beautiful watch, in return for which she gave him a 
kiss, which I daresay amply repaid Colonel Newcome; 
and shortly after him Mr. Clive arrived. As he entered, all 
the girls who had been admiring his pictures began to clap 
their hands. Mr. Clive Newcome blushed, and looked 
none the worse for that indication of modesty. 

Lady Kew had met Colonel Newcome a half-dozen times 
at her daughter's house ; but on this occasion she had quite 

280 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

forgotten him, for when the Colonel made a bow, her lady- 
ship regarded him steadily, and beckoning her daughter 
to her, asked who the gentleman was who had just kissed 
Ethel. 

With the clapping of hands that greeted Clive's arrival, 
the Countess was by no means more good-humoured. Not 
aware of her wrath, the young fellow, who had also previ- 
ously been presented to her, came forward presently to 
make her his compliments. " Pray, who are you? " she said, 
looking at him very earnestly in the face. He told her his 
name. 

" H'm," said Lady Kew, " I have heard of you, and I 
have heard very little good of you." 

" Will your ladyship please to give me your informant? " 
cried out Colonel Newcome. 

Barnes Newcome, who had condescended to attend his 
sister's little party, and had been languidly watching the 
frolics of the young people, looked very much alarmed, 
and hastened to soften the incident by a change of conver- 
sation. 

But the attitude of Lady Kew and young Barnes was 
only a reflection of the attitude of Ethel's parents concern- 
ing Clive, and Ethel, who was really friendly towards 
him, found it difficult to deny the charges which were 
constantly brought against the boy. The truth was the 
young fellow enjoyed life, as one of his age and spirit might 
be expected to do; but he did very little harm and meant 
less; and was quite unconscious of the reputation which he 
was gaining. 

There had been a long-standing promise that Clive and 
his father were to go to Newcome at Christmas; and I 
daresay Ethel proposed to reform the young prodigal, if 
prodigal he was, for she busied herself delightedly in pre- 

281 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

paring the apartments for their guests and putting off her 
visit to this pleasant neighbour, or that pretty scene in the 
vicinity, until her uncle should come and they might enjoy 
the excursion together. And before the arrival of her rela- 
tives, Ethel, with one of her young brothers, went to see 
Mrs. Mason and introduced herself as Colonel Newcome's 
niece, and came back charmed with the old lady and eager 
once more in defence of Clive, for had she not seen the 
kindest letter which Clive had written to old Mrs. Mason, 
and the beautiful drawing of his father on horseback, and 
in regimentals, waving his sword in front of the gallant 
Bengal Cavalry, which the lad had sent down to the good 
old woman? He could not be very bad, Ethel thought, 
who was so kind and thoughtful for the poor. And the 
young lady went home quite fired with enthusiasm for her 
cousin, but encountered Barnes, who was more than usually 
bitter and sarcastic on the subject. Ethel lost her temper, 
and then her firmness, while bursting into tears she taxed 
Barnes with cruelty for uttering stories to his cousin's dis- 
advantage and for pursuing with constant slander one of 
the very best of men. But notwithstanding her defence 
of the Colonel and Clive, when they came to Newcome for 
the Christmas holidays, there was no Ethel there. She 
had gone on a visit to her sick aunt. Colonel Newcome 
passed the holidays sadly without her, and Clive consoled 
himself by knocking down pheasants with Sir Brian's 
keepers; and increased his cousin's attachment for him by 
breaking the knees of Barnes's favourite mare out hunting. 
It was a dreary holiday; father and son were glad enough 
to get away from it, and to return to their own humbler 
quarters in London. 

Thomas Newcome had now been for three years in the 
possession of that joy which his soul longed after, and yet 

282 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

in spite of his happiness, his honest face grew more melan- 
choly, his loose clothes hung only the looser on his lean 
limbs; he ate his meals without appetite; his nights were 
restless and he would sit for hours silent, and was constantly 
finding business which took him to distant quarters of Eng- 
land. Notwithstanding this change in him the Colonel in- 
sisted that he was perfectly happy and contented, but the 
truth was, his heart was aching with the knowledge that 
Clive had occupations, ideas, associates, in which the elder 
could take no interest. Sitting in his blank, cheerless bed- 
room, Newcome could hear the lad and his friends making 
merry and breaking out in roars of laughter from time to 
time. The Colonel longed to share in the merriment, but 
he knew that the party would be hushed if he joined it, 
that the younger men were happier and freer without him, 
and without laying any blame upon them for this natural 
state of affairs, it saddened the days and nights of our genial 
Colonel. 

Clive, meanwhile, passed through the course of study pre- 
scribed by Mr. Gandish and drew every cast and statue 
in that gentleman's studio. Grindley, his tutor, getting a 
curacy, Clive did not replace him, but took a course of 
modern languages, which he learned with great rapidity. 
And now, being strong enough to paint without a master, 
Mr. Clive must needs have a studio, as there was no good 
light in the house in Fitzroy Square. If his kind father felt 
any pang even at this temporary parting, he was greatly 
soothed and pleased by a little mark of attention on Clive's 
part. He walked over with Colonel Newcome to see the 
new studio, with its tall centre window, and its curtains 
and hard wardrobes, china jars, pieces of armour, and other 
artistic properties, and with a very sweet smile of kind- 
ness and affection lighting up his honest face, took out a 

283 



BOYS AND GIRLS froyn THACKERAY 

house-key and gave it to his father: " That's your key, sir," 
he said to the Colonel; and you must be my first sitter, 
please, father; for, though I am to be a historical painter, 
I shall condescend to do a few portraits, you know." The 
Colonel grasped his son's hand as Clive fondly put the other 
hand on his father's shoulder. Then Colonel Newcome 
walked away for a minute or two, and came back wiping 
his moustache with his handkerchief, and still holding the 
key in the other hand. He spoke about some trivial sub- 
ject when he returned; but his voice quite trembled, his 
face glowed with love and pleasure, and the little act of 
affection compensated him for many weary hours of solitude. 
It is certain that Clive worked much better after he had 
this apartment of his own, and meals at home were gayer; 
and the rides with his father more frequent and agreeable. 
The Colonel used his key not infrequently, and found Clive 
and his friend J. J. as a general thing absorbed in executing 
historical subjects on the largest possible canvases. Mean- 
while Colonel Newcome was preparing his mind to leave 
his idol, who he knew would be happy without as with him. 
During the three years since he had come from India the 
Colonel had spent money lavishly and had also been obliged 
to pay dearly for some of Clive's boyish extravagances. At 
first, the Colonel had thought he might retire from the 
army altogether, but experience showed him that he could 
not live upon his income. He proposed now to return to 
India to get his promotion as full Colonel when the thou- 
sand a year to which that would entitle him, together with 
his other investments, would be ample for Clive and him- 
self to live on. While the Colonel's thoughts were absorbed 
in this matter his favourite Ethel was constantly away with 
her grandmother. The Colonel went to see her at Brighton, 
and once, twice, thrice. Lady Kew's door was denied to 

284 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

him. Once when the Colonel encountered his pretty Ethel 
with her riding master she greeted him affectionately, but 
when he rode up to her she looked so constrained, when 
he talked about Clive she was so reserved, when he left her, 
so sad, he could only feel pain and regret. Back he went 
to London, having in a week only caught this single glance 
of his darling, but filled with determination to have a frank 
talk with his sister-in-law, Lady Ann, and if possible to 
mend the family disagreement and turn the tide of Lady 
Ann's affection again towards his son. This he attempted 
to do, and would have succeeded had not Barnes Newcome 
been the head of the house. As we know, his opinion of 
Clive was not to that young man's advantage. These opin- 
ions were imparted to his Uncle Hobson at the bank, and 
Uncle Hobson carried them home to his wife, who took 
an early opportunity of repeating them to the Colonel, and 
the Colonel was brought to see that Barnes was his boy's 
enemy, and words very likely passed between them, for 
Thomas Newcome took a new banker at this time, and was 
very angry because Hobson Brothers wrote to him to say 
that he had overdrawn his account. " I am sure there is 
some screw loose," remarked Clive to a friend, " and that 
my father and the people in Park Lane have disagreed, 
because he goes there very little now; and he promised to 
go to Court when Ethel was presented and he didn't go." 
This state of affairs between the members of the New- 
come family continued for some months. Then, happily, 
a truce was declared, the quarrel between the Newcome 
brothers came to an end — for that time at least — and was 
followed by a rather showy reconciliation and a family din- 
ner at Brianstone Square. Everybody was bent upon being 
happy and gracious. It was " My dear brother, how do 
you do? " from Sir Brian. " My dear Colonel, how glad 

285 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

we are to see you! How well you look! " from Lady Ann. 
Ethel Newcome ran to him with both hands out, an eager 
welcome on her beautiful face. And even Lady Kew held 
out her hand to Colonel Newcome, saying briskly: " Colo- 
nel, it is an age since we met," and turning to Clive with 
equal graciousness to say, " Mr. Clive, let me shake hands 
with you; I have heard all sorts of good of you, that you 
have been painting the most beautiful things, that you are 
going to be quite famous." There was no doubt about it, 
— it was an evening of reconciliation on every side. 

Ethel was so happy to see her dear uncle that she had 
no eyes for any one else, until Clive advancing, those bright 
eyes became brighter still as she saw him; and as she looked 
she saw a very handsome fellow, for Clive at that time was 
of the ornamental class of mankind — a customer to tailors, 
a wearer of handsome rings, shirt studs, long hair, and the 
like; nor could he help, in his costume or his nature, being 
picturesque, generous, and splendid. Silver dressing cases 
and brocade morning gowns were in him a sort of propriety 
at this season of his youth. It was a pleasure to persons of 
colder temperament to sun themselves in the warmth of his 
bright looks and generous humour. His laughter cheered 
one like wine. I do not know that he was very witty; but 
he was pleasant. He was prone to blush; the history of a 
generous trait moistened his eyes instantly. He was in- 
stinctively fond of children and of the other sex from one 
year old to eighty. Coming from the Derby once and being 
stopped on the road in a lock of carriages during which 
the people in a carriage ahead saluted us with many insult- 
ing epithets, and seized the heads of our leaders, Clive in 
a twinkling jumped ofif the box, and the next minute we saw 
him engaged with a half dozen of the enemy: his hat gone, 
his fair hair falling ofif his face, his blue eyes flashing fire, 

286 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

his lips and nostrils quivering with wrath. His father sat 
back in the carriage looking on with delight and wonder 
while a policeman separated the warriors. Clive ascended 
the box again, with his coat gashed from waist to shoulder. 
I hardly ever saw the elder Newcome in such a state of 
triumph. 

While we have been making this sketch of Clive, Ethel 
was standing looking at him, and the blushing youth cast 
down his eyes before hers while her face assumed a look of 
arch humour. And now let us have a likeness of Ethel. She 
was seventeen years old; rather taller than the majority 
of girls; her face somewhat grave and haughty, but on occa- 
sion brightening with humour or beaming with kindliness 
and affection. Too quick to detect affectation or insincerity 
in others, too impatient of dulness or pomposity, she was 
more sarcastic now than she became when after-years of 
suffering had softened her nature. Truth looked out of her 
bright eyes, and rose up armed and flashed scorn or denial 
when she encountered flattery or meanness or imposture. 

But those who had no cause to fear her keenness or her 
coldness admired her beauty; nor could the famous Pari- 
sian model whom Clive said she resembled be more perfect 
in form than this young lady. Her hair and eyebrows were 
jet black, but her complexion was dazzlingly fair and her 
cheeks as red as those belonging by right to a blonde. In 
her black hair there was a slight natural ripple. Her eyes 
were grey; her mouth rather large; her teeth were regular 
and white, her voice was low and sweet; and her smile, 
when it lighted up her face and eyes, as beautiful as spring 
sunshine; also her eyes could lighten and flash often, and 
sometimes, though rarely, rain. As for her figure, the tall, 
slender form clad in a simple white muslin robe in which 
her fair arms were enveloped, and which was caught at 

287 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

her slim waist by a blue ribbon, let us make a respectful 
bow to that fair image of youth, health, and modesty, and 
fancy it as pretty as we will. 

Not yet overshadowed by the cloud of Colonel New- 
come's departure, light-hearted in the joy of reconciliation 
and meeting, once again full of high spirits and mindful 
of no moment beyond the present, the two cousins never 
looked brighter or happier, and as Colonel Newcome gazed 
upon them in the freshness of their youth and vigour his 
heart was filled with delight. 

Not many days after the dinner the good Colonel found 
it necessary to break the news of his intended departure 
to Clive. His resolution to go being taken, and having been 
obliged to dip somewhat deeply into the little purse he 
had set aside for European expenses to help a kinsman in 
distress, the Colonel's departure came somewhat sooner than 
he had expected. But, as he said, " A year sooner or later, 
what does it matter? Clive will go away and work at his 
art, and see the great schools of painting while I am absent. 
I thought at one time how pleasant it would be to accom- 
pany him. I fancy now a lad is not the better for being 
always tied to his parents' apron-strings. You young fellows 
are too clever for me. I haven't learned your ideas or read 
your books. I feel myself very often an old damper in 
your company. I will go back, sir, where I have some 
friends, and where I am somebody still. I know an honest 
face or two, white and brown, that will lighten up in the 
old regiment when they see Tom Newcome again." 

With this resolution taken, the Colonel began saying fare- 
well to his friends. He and Clive made a pilgrimage to 
Grey Friars; and the Colonel ran down to Newcome to 
give Mrs. Mason a parting benediction; went to all the 
boys' and girls' schools where his little proteges were, so as 

288 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

to be able to take the very latest account of the young folks 
to their parents in India; and thence proceeded to Brighton 
to pass a little time with good Miss Honeyman. With Sir 
Brian's family he parted on very good terms. I believe 
Sir Brian even accompanied him downstairs from the 
drawing-room in Park Lane, and actually saw his brother 
into his cab, but as for Ethel, she was not going to be put 
off with this sort of parting; and the next morning a cab 
dashed up to Fitzroy Square and she was closeted with 
Colonel Newcome for five minutes, and when he led her 
back to the carriage there were tears in his eyes. Then 
came the day when Clive and his father travelled together 
to Southampton, where a group of the Colonel's faithful 
friends were assembled to say a " God bless you " to their 
dear old friend, and see the vessel sail. To the end Clive 
remained with his father and went below with him, and 
when the last bell was ringing, came from below looking 
very pale. The plank was drawn after him almost as soon 
as he stepped on land, and the vessel had sailed. 

Although Thomas Newcome had gone back to India in 
search of more money, he was nevertheless rather a wealthy 
man and was able to leave a hundred a year in England to 
be transferred to his boy as soon as he came of age. He also 
left a considerable annual sum to be paid to the boy, and so 
as soon as the parting was over and his affairs were settled, 
Clive was free to start on his travels, to study art in new 
lands, accompanied by his faithful friend J. J. They went 
first to Antwerp; thence to Brussels, and next Clive's cor- 
respondents received a letter from Bonn: in which Mas- 
ter Clive said, " And whom should I find here but Aunt 
Ann, Ethel, Miss Quigley and the little ones. Uncle Brian 
is staying at Aix, and, upon my conscience, I think my 
pretty cousin looks prettier every day. J. J. and I were 

289 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

climbing a little hill which leads to a ruin, when I heard 
a little voice cry, ^ Hello! it's Clive! Hooray, Clive, ' and 
an ass came down the incline with a little pair of white 
trousers at an immensely wide angle over the donkey's back, 
and there was little Alfred grinning with all his might. 

" He turned his beast and was for galloping up the hill 
again, I suppose to inform his relations; but the donkey 
refused with many kicks, one of which sent Alfred plunging 
amongst the stones, and we were rubbing him down just 
as the rest of the party came upon us. Miss Quigley looked 
very grim on an old white pony; my aunt was on a black 
horse that might have turned grey, he is so old. Then came 
two donkeys-full of children, with Kuhn as supercargo; 
then Ethel on donkey back, too, with a bunch of wild 
flowers in her hand, a great straw hat with a crimson ribbon, 
a white muslin jacket, you know, bound at the waist with a 
ribbon of the first, and a dark skirt, with a shawl round her 
feet, which Kuhn had arranged. As she stopped, the don- 
key fell to cropping greens in the hedge; the trees there 
chequered her white dress and face with shadow. Her eyes, 
hair, and forehead were in shadow, too, but the light was 
all upon her right cheek. Upon her shoulder down to her 
arm, which was of a warmer white, and on the bunch of 
flowers which she held, blue, yellow, and red poppies, and 
so forth, 

" J. J. says, ' I think the birds began to sing louder when 
she came.' We have both agreed that she is the handsomest 
woman in England. It's not her form merely, which is 
certainly as yet too thin and a little angular; it is her colour. 
I do not care for women or pictures without colour. Oh, 
ye carnations! Oh, such black hair and solemn eyebrows. 
It seems to me the roses and carnations have bloomed again 
since we saw them last in London, when they were droop- 

290 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

ing from the exposure to night air, candle light, and heated 
ballrooms. 

" Here I was in the^midst of a regiment of donkeys bear- 
ing a crowd of relations; J. J. standing modestly in the 
background, beggars completing the group. Throw in the 
Rhine in the distance flashing by the Seven Mountains — but 
mind and make Ethel the principal figure: if you make 
her like she certainly will be, and other lights will be only 
minor fires. You may paint her form, but can't paint her 
colour." 

Thus wrote Clive from Bonn, and now that the old 
Countess and Barnes were away, the barrier between Clive 
and this family was withdrawn. The young folks who 
loved him were free to see him as often as he would come. 
They were going to Baden: would he come, too? He was 
glad enough to go with them, and to travel in the orbit of 
such a lovely girl as Ethel Newcome, whose beauty made 
all the passengers on all the steamers look round and ad- 
mire. The journey was all sunshine and pleasure and nov- 
elty; and I like to think of the pretty girl and the gallant 
young fellow enjoying this holiday. Few sights are more 
pleasant than to watch a happy, manly English youth, free- 
handed and generous-hearted, content and good-humour 
shining in his honest face, pleased and pleasing, eager, ac- 
tive, and thankful for services, and exercising bravely his 
noble youthful privilege to be happy and to enjoy. As 
for J. J., he, too, had his share of enjoyment. Clive was 
still his hero as ever, his patron, his splendid young prince 
and chieftain. Who was so brave, who was so handsome, 
generous, witty as Clive? To hear Clive sing, as the lad 
would whilst they were seated at their work, or driving 
along on this happy journey, through fair landscapes in 
the sunshine, gave J. J. the keenest pleasure; his wit was a 

291 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

little slow, but he would laugh with his eyes at Clive's 
sallies, or ponder over them and explode with laughter pres- 
ently, giving a new source of amusement to these merry 
travellers, and little Alfred would laugh at J. J.'s laughing; 
and so, with a hundred harmless jokes to enliven, and the 
ever-changing, ever-charming smiles of Nature to cheer 
and accompany it, the happy day's journey would come to 
an end. 

So they travelled by the accustomed route to the pret- 
tiest town of all places where Pleasure has set up her tents, 
and there enjoyed themselves to the fullest extent. 

Among Colonel Newcome's papers to which the family 
biographer has had access, there are a couple of letters from 
Clive, dated Baden this time, and full of happiness, 
gaiety, and afifection. Letter No. i says: "Ethel is the 
prettiest girl here. At the Assemblies all the princes, 
counts, dukes, etc., are dying to dance with her. She sends 
her dearest love to her uncle." By the side of the words 
'' Prettiest girl " are written in a frank female hand the 
monosyllable " stuff " ; and as a note to the expression 
" dearest love," with a star to mark the text and the note, 
are squeezed in the same feminine characters at the bottom 
of Clive's page the words " that I do. E. N," 

In letter No. 2, Clive, after giving amusing details of 
life at Baden and the company whom he met there, con- 
cludes with this: " Ethel is looking over my shoulder. She 
thinks me such a delightful creature that she is never easy 
without me. She bids me to say that I am the best of sons 
and cousins, and am, in a word, a darling du . . ." The 
rest of this important word is not given, but " goose " 
is added in the female hand. 

Ethel takes up the pen. " My dear uncle," she says, 
" while Clive is sketching out of the window, let me write to 

292 



CLIVE AND ETHEL NEWCOME 

you a line or two on his paper, though I know you like to 
hear no one speak but him. I wish I could draw him for 
you as he stands yonder looking the picture of good health, 
good spirits, and good-humour. Everybody likes him. He 
is quite unafifected; always gay, always pleased, and he 
draws more beautifully every day." 

When these letters were received by the good Colonel in 
India we can well imagine the joy that warmed his fond 
heart. He, himself, was comfortably settled in the only 
place which would ever be home to him, — his son, the 
idol of his heart, was with Ethel, his darling. The objects 
of his tenderest aflfection were gay, happy, together, and, 
best of all, thinking of him. That he was not with them 
gave him no regrets; his love was too great for that. That 
their youth was soon to give place to the soberer experiences 
of life, gave him no pang of fear for them. Reading their 
letters, the Colonel was filled with quiet contentment; their 
future he could trust to the care of that Guiding Hand to 
whom he had entrusted his boy in childhood's earliest days. 



293 



ARTHUR PENDENNIS 



295 










Arthur Pendennis at Fair-Oaks. 



ARTHUR PENDENNIS 



EARLY in the Regency of George the Magnificent 
there lived in a small town in the west of England, 
called Clavering, a gentleman whose name was 
Pendennis. At an earlier date Mr. Pendennis 
had exercised the profession of apothecary and 
surgeon, and had even condescended to sell a plaster across 
the counter of his humble shop, or to vend tooth-brushes, 
hair-powder, and London perfumery. And yet that little 
apothecary was a gentleman with good education, and of 
as old a family as any in the county of Somerset, He had 
a Cornish pedigree which carried the Pendennises back to 
the time of the Druids. He had had a piece of University 
education, and might have pursued that career with honour, 
but in his second year at Oxford his father died insolvent, 
and he was obliged to betake himself to the trade which he 
always detested. For some time he had a hard struggle 
with poverty, but his manners were so gentleman-like and 
soothing that he was called in to prescribe for some of the 
ladies in the best families of Bath. Then his humble little 
shop became a smart one; then he shut it up altogether; 
then he had a gig with a man to drive in; and before she 
died his poor old mother had the happiness of seeing her 
beloved son step into a close carriage of his own; with the 
arms of the family of Pendennis handsomely emblazoned 
on the panels. He married Miss Helen Thistlewood, a very 

297 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

distant relative of the noble family of Bareacres, having 
met that young lady under Lady Pentypool's roof. 

The secret ambition of Mr. Pendennis had always been 
to be a gentleman. By prudence and economy, his income 
w^as largely increased, and finally he sold his business for 
a handsome sum, and retired forever from handling of the 
mortar and pestle, having purchased as a home the house 
of Fair-Oaks, nearly a mile out of Clavering. 

The estate was a beautiful one, and Arthur Pendennis, 
his son, being then but eight years of age, dated his earliest 
recollections from that place. 

Fair-Oaks lawn comes down to the little river Brawl, and 
on the other side were the plantations and woods of Claver- 
ing Park. The park was let out in pasture when the Pen- 
dennises came first to live at Fair-Oaks. Shutters were up 
in the house; a splendid free stone palace, with great stairs, 
statues and porticos. Sir Richard Clavering, Sir Francis's 
grandfather, had commenced the ruin of the family by the 
building of this palace: his successor had achieved the ruin 
by living in it. The present Sir Francis was abroad some- 
where, and until now nobody could be found rich enough 
to rent that enormous mansion; through the deserted rooms, 
mouldy, clanking halls, and dismal galleries of w^hich 
Arthur Pendennis many a time walked trembling when he 
was a boy. At sunset from the lawn of Fair-Oaks there was 
a pretty sight: it and the opposite park of Clavering were 
in the habit of putting on a rich golden tinge, which became 
them both wonderfully. The upper windows of the great 
house flamed so as to make your eyes wink; the little river 
ran off noisily westward and was lost in sombre wood, be- 
hind which the towers of the old abbey church of Claver- 
ing (whereby that town is called Clavering St. Mary's to 
the present day) rose up in purple splendour. Little Ar- 

298 



ARTHUR PENDENNIS 

thur's figure and his mother's cast long blue shadows over 
the grass: and he would repeat in a low voice (for a scene 
of great natural beauty always moved the boy, who inher- 
ited this sensibility from his mother) certain lines begin- 
ning, "These are thy glorious works, Parent of Good; 
Almighty! thine this universal frame," greatly to Mrs. 
Pendennis's delight. Such walks and conversation gener- 
ally ended in a profusion of filial and maternal embraces; 
for to love and to pray were the main occupations of this 
dear woman's life; and I have often heard Pendennis say in 
his wild way, that he felt that he was sure of going to heaven, 
for his mother never could be happy there without him. 

As for John Pendennis, as the father of the family, and 
that sort of thing, everybody had the greatest respect for 
him : and his orders were obeyed like those of the Medes 
and Persians. His hat was as well brushed perhaps as 
that of any man in this empire. His meals were served at 
the same minute every day, and woe to those who came 
late, as little Pen, a disorderly little rascal, sometimes did. 
Prayers were recited, his letters were read, his business 
despatched, his stables and garden inspected, his hen-houses 
and kennel, his barn and pig-sty visited, always at regular 
hours. After dinner he always had a nap with the Globe 
newspaper on his knee, and his yellow bandanna handker- 
chief on his face. And so, as his dinner took place at six 
o'clock to a minute, and the sunset business alluded to may 
be supposed to have occurred at half-past seven, it is prob- 
able that he did not much care for the view in front of his 
lawn windows, or take any share in the poetry and caresses 
which were taking place there. 

They seldom occurred in his presence. However frisky 
they were before, mother and child were hushed and quiet 
when Mr. Pendennis walked into the drawing-room, his 

299 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

newspaper under his arm. And here, while little Pen, 
buried in a great chair, read all the books on which he 
could lay hold, the Squire perused his own articles in the 
Gardener's Gazette, or took a solemn hand at piquet with 
Mrs. Pendennis, or an occasional friend from the village. 

As for Mrs. Pendennis, she was conspicuous for her tran- 
quil beauty, her natural sweetness and kindness, and that 
simplicity and dignity which purity and innocence are sure 
to bestow upon a handsome woman, and during her son's 
childhood and youth the boy thought of her as little less 
than an angel, a supernatural being, all wisdom, love and 
beauty. But Mrs. Pendennis had one weakness, — pride of 
family. She spoke of Mr. Pendennis as if he had been the 
Pope of-Rome on his throne, and she a cardinal kneeling at 
his feet, and giving him incense. Mr. Pendennis's brother, 
the Major, she held to be a sort of Bayard among Majors, 
and as for her son x\rthur, she worshipped that youth with 
an ardour which the young scapegrace accepted almost as 
coolly as the statue of the saint in St. Peter's receives the 
rapturous kisses which the faithful deliver on his toe. 

Notwithstanding his mother's worship of him, Arthur 
Pendennis's school-fellows at the Grey Friars School state 
that as a boy he was in no way remarkable either as a dunce 
or as a scholar. He never read to improve himself out 
of school-hours, but on the contrary devoured all the novels, 
plays and poetry he could get hold of. He never was 
flogged, but it was a wonder how he escaped the whipping- 
post. When he had money he spent it royally in tarts for him- 
self and his friends, and had been known to disburse nine 
and sixpence out of ten shillings awarded to him in a single 
day. When he had no funds he went on tick. When he 
could get no credit he went without, and was almost as 
happy. He had been known to take a thrashing for a crony 

300 



ARTHUR PENDENNIS 

without saying a word; but a blow ever so slight from a 
friend would make him roar. To fighting he was averse 
from his earliest youth, and indeed to physic, the Greek 
Grammar, or any other exertion, and would engage in none 
of them, except at the last extremity. He seldom if ever 
told lies, and never bullied little boys. Those masters or 
seniors who were kind to him, he loved with boyish ardour. 
And though the Doctor, when he did not know his Horace, 
or could not construe his Greek play, said that that boy 
Pendennis was a disgrace to the school, a candidate for ruin 
in this world, and perdition in the next; a profligate who 
would most likely bring his venerable father to ruin and 
his mother to a dishonoured grave, and the like — yet as 
the Doctor made use of these compliments to most of the 
boys in the place, little Pen, at first uneasy and terrified by 
these charges, became gradually accustomed to hear them; 
and he has not, in fact, either murdered his parents or com- 
mitted any act worthy of transportation or hanging up to 
the present day. 

Thus with various diversions and occupations his school 
days passed until he was about sixteen years old, when he 
was suddenly called away from his academic studies. 

It was at the close of the forenoon school, and Pen had 
been unnoticed all the previous part of the morning till 
now, when the Doctor put him on to construe in a Greek 
play. He did not know a word of it, though little Timmins, 
his form-fellow, was prompting him with all his might. 
Pen had made a sad blunder or two, when the awful chief 
broke out upon him. 

" Pendennis, sir," he said, " your idleness is incorrigible 
and your stupidity beyond example. You are a disgrace 
to your school, and to your family, and I have no doubt 
will prove so in after-life to your country. If that vice, 

301 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

sir, which is described to us as the root of all evil, be really 
what moralists have represented, what a prodigious quan- 
tity of future crime and wickedness are you, unhappy boy, 
laying the seed! Miserable trifler! A boy, sir, who does not 
learn his Greek play cheats the parent who spends money 
for his education. A boy who cheats his parent is not very 
far from robbing or forging upon his neighbour. A man 
who forges on his neighbour pays the penalty of his crirne 
at the gallows. And it is not such a one that I pity, for he 
will be deservedly cut off, but his maddened and heart- 
broken parents, who are driven to a premature grave by his 
crimes, or, if they live, drag on a wretched and dishonoured 
old age. Go on, sir, and I warn you that the very next 
mistake that you make shall subject you to the punishment 
of the rod. Who's that laughing? What ill-conditioned 
boy is there that dares to laugh?" shouted the Doctor. 

Indeed, while the master was making this oration, there 
was a general titter behind him in the schoolroom. The 
orator had his back to the door of this ancient apartment, 
which was open, and a gentleman who was quite familiar 
with the place (for both Major Arthur, Pen's uncle, and 
Mr. John Pendennis had been at the school) was asking the 
fifth-form boy who sat by the door for Pendennis. The lad, 
grinning, pointed to the culprit against whom the Doctor 
was pouring out the thunders of his just wrath. Major 
Pendennis could not help laughing. He rehiembered hav- 
ing stood under that very pillar where Pen the younger 
now stood, and having been assaulted by the Doctor's pred- 
ecessor years and years ago. The intelligence was " passed 
round " in an instant that it was Pendennis's uncle, and a 
hundred young faces, wondering and giggling, between ter- 
ror and laughter, turned now to the newcomer and then to 
the awful Doctor. 

302 



ARTHUR PENDENNIS 

The Major asked the fifth-form boy to carry his card 
up to the Doctor, which the lad did with an arch look. 
Major Pendennis had written on the card: "I must take 
A. P. home; his father is very ill." 

As the Doctor received the card, and stopped his ha- 
rangue with rather a scared look, the laughter of the boys, 
half constrained until then, burst out in a general shout. 
" Silence! " roared out the Doctor, stamping with his foot. 
Pen looked up and saw who was his deliverer; the Major 
beckoned to him gravely, and, tumbling down his books, 
Pen went across. 

The Doctor took out his watch. It was two minutes to 
one. " We will take the Juvenal at afternoon school," he 
said, nodding to the Captain, and all the boys, understand- 
ing the signal, gathered up their books and poured out of 
the hall. 

Young Pen saw by his uncle's face that something had 
happened at home. " Is there anything the matter with — 
my mother? " he said. He could hardly speak for emotion 
and the tears which were ready to start. 

" No," said the Major, " but your father's very ill. Go 
and pack your trunk directly; I have got a post-chaise at 
the gate." 

Pen went ofif quickly to his boarding-house to do as his 
uncle bade him; and the Doctor, now left alone in the 
schoolroom, came out to shake hands with the Major. 

" There is nothing serious, I hope," said the Doctor. " It 
is a pity to take the boy otherwise. He is a good boy, rather 
idle and unenergetic, but an honest, gentleman-like little 
fellow, though I can't get him to construe as I wish. Won't 
you come in and have some luncheon? My wife will be 
very happy to see you." 

But Major Pendennis declined the luncheon. He said 

303 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

his brother was very ill, and had had a fit the day be- 
fore, and it was a great question if they should see him 
alive. 

" There's no other son, is there? " said the Doctor. The 
Major answered " No." 

" And there's a good eh — a good eh — property, I be- 
lieve? " asked the other in an off-hand way. 

" H'm — so-so," said the Major. Whereupon this col- 
loquy came to an end. And Arthur Pendennis got into a 
post-chaise with his uncle, never to come back to school 
any more. 

As the chaise drove through Clavering, the ostler stand- 
ing whistling under the archway of the Clavering Arms 
winked to the postilion ominously, as much as to say all 
was over. The gardener's wife came and opened the lodge- 
gates and let the travellers through with a silent shake of 
the head. All the blinds were down at Fair-Oaks; and the 
face of the old footman was as blank when he let them 
in. Arthur's face was white, too, with terror more than 
with grief. Whatever of warmth and love the deceased 
man might have had, and he adored his wife, and loved and 
admired his son with all his heart, he had shut them up 
within himself; nor had the boy ever been able to penetrate 
that frigid outward barrier. 

A little girl, who was Mrs. Pendennis's adopted daughter, 
the child of a dear old friend, peered for a moment under 
the blinds as the chaise came up, opened the door from the 
stairs into the hall, and there taking Arthur's hand silently 
as he stooped down to kiss her, led him upstairs to his 
mother. What passed between that lady and the boy is not 
of import; a veil should be thrown over those sacred emo- 
tions of love and grief. 

As for Arthur Pendennis, after that awful shock which 

304 



ARTHUR PENDENNIS 

the sight of his dead father must have produced on him, 
and the pity and feeling which such an event no doubt oc- 
casioned, I am not sure that in the very moment of the grief, 
and as he embraced his mother and tenderly consoled her 
and promised to love her forever, there w^as not springing 
up in his breast a sort of secret triumph and exultation. He 
w^as the chief now and lord. He was Pendennis; and all 
round about him were his servants and handmaids. 

" You'll never send me away," little Laura said, trip- 
ping by him and holding his hand. " You won't send me 
to school, will you, Arthur? " 

Arthur kissed her and patted her head. No, she shouldn't 
go to school. As for going himself, that was quite out of 
the question. He had determined that his life should be 
all holidays for the future; that he wouldn't get up till he 
liked, or stand the bullying of the Doctor any more; and 
made a hundred such day-dreams and resolves for the fu- 
ture. Then in due time they buried John Pendennis, Es- 
quire, in the Abbey Church of Clavering St. Mary's, and 
Arthur Pendennis reigned in his stead. 

Arthur was about sixteen years old when he began to 
reign; in person he had what his friends would call a 
dumpy, but his mamma styled, a neat little figure. His 
hair was of a healthy brown colour, which looked like gold 
in the sunshine. His face was round, rosy, freckled, and 
good-humoured. In fact, without being a beauty, he had 
such a frank, good-natured, kind face and laughed so mer- 
rily at you out of his honest blue eyes that no wonder Mrs. 
Pendennis thought him the pride of the whole country. 
You may be certain he never went back to school; the 
discipline of the establishment did not suit him, and he liked 
being at home much better. The question of his return 
was debated, and his uncle was for his going back. The 

305 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

Doctor wrote his opinion that it was most important for 
Arthur's success in after life that he should know a Greek 
play thoroughly, but Pen adroitly managed to hint to his 
mother what a dangerous place Grey Friars was, and what 
sad wild fellows some of the chaps there were, and the 
timid soul, taking alarm at once, acceded to his desire to 
stay at home. 

Then Pen's uncle offered to use his influence with his 
Royal Highness, the Commander-in-Chief, to get Pen a 
commission in the Foot Guards. Pen's heart leaped at this: 
he had been to hear the band at St. James's play on a Sun- 
day, when he went out to his uncle. He had seen Tom 
Ricketts, of the fourth form, who used to wear a jacket and 
trousers so ludicrously tight that the elder boys could not 
forbear using him in the quality of a butt or " cockshy " — 
he had seen this very Ricketts arrayed in crimson and gold, 
with an immense bearskin cap on his head, staggering un- 
der the colours of the regiment. Tom had recognised him 
and gave him a patronising nod — Tom, a little wretch 
whom he had cut over the back with a hockey-stick last 
quarter, and there he was in the centre of the square, rally- 
ing round the flag of his county, surrounded by bayonets, 
cross-belts, and scarlet, the band blowing trumpets and 
banging cymbals — talking familiarly to immense warriors 
with tufts to their chins and Waterloo medals. What would 
not Pen have given to enter such a service? 

But Helen Pendennis, when this point was proposed to 
her by her son, put on a face full of terror and alarm, and 
confessed that she should be very unhappy if he thought of 
entering the army. Now Pen would as soon have cut off 
his nose and ears as deliberately and of malice aforethought 
have made his mother unhappy; and as he was of such a 
generous disposition that he would give away anything to 

306 



ARTHUR PENDENNIS 

any one, he instantly made a present of his visionary red 
coat and epaulettes to his mother. 

She thought him the noblest creature in the world. But 
Major Pendennis, when the offer of the commission was 
acknowledged and refused, wrote back a curt and somewhat 
angry letter to the widow, and thought his nephew was 
rather a spooney. 

He was contented, however, when he saw the boy's per- 
formances out hunting at Christmas, when the Major came 
down as usual to Fair-Oaks. Pen had a very good mare, 
and rode her with uncommon pluck and grace. He took 
his fences with great coolness and judgment. He wrote 
to the chaps at school about his topboots, and his feats across 
country. He began to think seriously of a scarlet coat: and 
his mother must own that she thought it would become him 
remarkably well ; though, of course, she passed hours of 
anguish during his absence, and daily expected to see him 
brought home on a shutter. 

With these amusements, in rather too great plenty, it 
must not be assumed that Pen negelected his studies alto- 
gether. He had a natural taste for reading every possible 
kind of book which did not fall into his school course. It 
was only when they forced his head into the waters of knowl- 
edge that he refused to drink. He devoured all the books 
at home and ransacked the neighbouring book-cases. He 
found at Clavering an old cargo of French novels which 
he read with all his might; and he would sit for hours 
perched on the topmost bar of Dr. Portman's library steps 
with an old folio on his knees. 

Mr. Smirke, Dr. Portman's curate, was engaged at a 
liberal salary to pass several hours daily with the young 
gentleman. He was a decent scholar and mathematician, 
and taught Pen as much as the lad was ever disposed to learn, 

307 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

which was not much. Pen soon took the measure of his 
tutor, who, when he came riding into the court-yard at 
Fair-Oaks on his pony, turned out his toes so absurdly, and 
left such a gap between his knees and the saddle, that it 
was impossible for any lad endowed with a sense of humour 
to respect such a rider. He nearly killed Smirke with ter- 
ror by putting him on his mare, and taking him a ride 
over a common where the county fox-hounds happened to 
meet. 

Smirke and his pupil read the ancient poets together, 
and rattled through them at a pleasant rate, very different 
from that steady grubbing pace with which he was obliged 
to go over the classis ground at Grey Friars, scenting out 
each word and digging up every root in the way. Pen 
never liked to halt, but made his tutor construe when he 
was at fault, and thus galloped through the Iliad and the 
Odyssey and the charming, wicked Aristophanes. But he 
went so fast that though he certainly galloped through a 
considerable extent of the ancient country, he clean forgot 
it in after life. Besides the ancient poets, Pen read the 
English with great gusto. Smirke sighed and shook his 
head sadly both about Byron and Moore. But Pen was a 
sworn fire-worshipper and a corsair; he had them by heart, 
and used to take little Laura into the window and say, 
" Zuleika, I am not thy brother," in tones so tragic that they 
caused the solemn little maid to open her great eyes still 
wider. She sat sewing at Mrs. Pendennis's knee, listening 
to Pen reading to her without understanding one word of 
what he said. 

He read Shakespeare to his mother, and Byron and Pope, 
and his favourite " Lalla Rookh " and Bishop Heber and 
Mrs. Hemans, and about this period of his existence began to 
write verses of his own. He broke out in the poet's corner 

308 



ARTHUR PENDENNIS 

of the County Chronicle with some verses with which he 
was perfectly well satisfied. His are the verses signed NEP 
addressed " To a Tear," " On the Anniversary of the Battle 
of Waterloo," " On St. Bartholomew's Day," etc., etc., all of 
which masterpieces Mrs. Pendennis kept along with his first 
socks, the first cutting of his hair, his bottle and other 
interesting relics of his infancy. His genius at this time 
was of a decidedly gloomy cast. He brought his mother 
a tragedy in which, though he killed sixteen people before 
the second act, she laughed so that he thrust the master- 
piece into the fire in a pet. He also projected an epic 
poem in blank verse, and several other classical pieces of 
a gloomy character, and was altogether of an intense and 
sentimental turn of mind quite in contrast with his practical 
and merry appearance. The sentimental side of his nature, 
fed by the productions of his favourite poets and fanned 
by the romantic temperament of his tutor, soon found an ob- 
ject to kindle the spark into a blaze, and a most unfortunate 
blaze for Pen. 

While Mrs. Pendennis was planning her son's career and 
had not yet settled in her mind whether he was to be Senior 
Wrangler and Archbishop of Canterbury, or Double First 
Class at Oxford and Lord Chancellor, young Pen himself 
was starting out on quite a different career, which seemed 
destined to lead him in the opposite direction from that 
of his mother's day-dreams, who had made up her mind that 
in time he was to marry little Laura, settle in London and 
astonish that city by his learning and eloquence at the 
Bar; or, better still, in a sweet country parsonage sur- 
rounded by hollyhocks and roses close to a delightful, 
romantic, ivy-covered church, from the pulpit of which 
Pen would utter the most beautiful sermons ever preached. 

While these plans and decisions were occupying his 

309 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

mother's thoughts, Pen was getting into mischief. One day 
he rode into Chatteris to carry to the County Chronicle a 
thrilling poem for the next week's paper; and while put- 
ting up his horse at the stables at the George hotel, he fell 
in with an old school-fellow, Mr. Foker, who after a desul- 
tory conversation with Pen strolled down High Street with 
him, and persuaded him not only to dine at the George with 
him, but to accompany him later to the theatre. Mr. Foker, 
who was something of a sport, was acquainted with the 
troupe who were then acting at that theatre, and the entire 
atmosphere was so new and exciting to Pen that his emo- 
tional nature, which had been waiting for many months 
for a sensational thrill, responded at once to the idea; and 
later on to the applause of pit and gallery, and to the 
personal magnetism of the heroine of the play, one Miss 
Fotheringay. 

To Miss Fotheringay's attractions, natural and artificial, 
Pen responded at once, and sat in breathless enchanted si- 
lence through all the conversations and melodramatic situa- 
tions of the mediocre performance. When the curtain went 
down he felt that he now had a subject to inspire his Muse 
forever. He quitted the theatre in a state of intense excite- 
ment, and rode homeward in a state of numb ecstasy. Not- 
withstanding his sentimental mood. Pen was so normal in 
mind and body that he slept as soundly as ever, but when 
he awoke he felt himself to be many years older than yester- 
day. He dressed himself in some of his finest clothes, and 
came down to breakfast, patronising his mother and little 
Laura, who wondered at his grand appearance, and asked 
him to tell her what the play was about. 

Pen laughed and declined to tell her. Then she asked 
him why he had got on his fine pin and beautiful new waist- 
coat? 

310 



ARTHUR PENDENNIS 

Pen blushed and said that Mr. Foker was reading with 
a tutor at Baymouth, a very learned man; and as he was 
himself to go to college he was anxious to ride over — and 
— just see what their course of reading was. The truth was 
Pen had resolved that he must see Foker that morning and 
.find out all that was possible concerning the object of his last 
night's enthusiasm; and soon after breakfast he was on 
his horse galloping away towards Baymouth like a mad- 
man. 

From that time the lad's chief object in life was visiting 
the theatre, or Miss Fotheringay herself, to whom he had 
speedily received an introduction; and although she was 
a young woman not at all conversant with the social side 
of life with which he was familiar, she was nevertheless 
fascinating to Pen, who saw her always in the glamour 
of lime lights and applause. It was not long before Mrs. 
Pendennis discovered the lad's new interest, which natu- 
rally disquieted her. Finally, however, for reasons of her 
own, she assented to Pen's suggestion that Miss Fotheringay 
was to appear as Ophelia in a benefit performance. 

" Suppose we were to go — Shakespeare, you know, 
mother. We can get horses from the Clavering Arms," 
he said. Little Laura sprang up with delight; she longed 
for a play. The mother was delighted that Pen should sug- 
gest their going, and in her good-humour asked Mr. Smirke 
to be one of the party. They arrived at the theatre ahead of 
time, and were cordially saluted by Mr. Foker and a friend, 
who sat in a box near theirs. The young fellows saluted 
Pen cordially, and examined his party with approval; for 
little Laura was a pretty red-cheeked girl with a quantity 
of shining brown ringlets, and Mrs. Pendennis, dressed in 
black velvet, with a diamond cross which she wore on great 
occasions, looked uncommonly handsome and majestic. 

311 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

" Who is that odd-looking person bowing to you, Ar- 
thur? " Mrs. Pendennis asked of her son^ after a critical 
examination of the audience. 

Pen blushed a great deal. " His name is Captain Costi- 
gan, ma'am," he said, " a Peninsular officer." Pen did not 
volunteer anything more; and how was Mrs. Pendennis to 
know that Mr. Costigan was the father of Miss Fother- 
ingay? 

We have nothing to do with the play except to say that 
Ophelia looked lovely, and performed with admirable wild 
pathos, laughing, weeping, gazing wildly, waving her beau- 
tiful white arms and flinging about her snatches of flowers 
and songs with the most charming madness. What an op- 
portunity her splendid black hair had of tossing over her 
shoulders! She made the most charming corpse ever seen, 
and while Hamlet and Laertes were battling in her grave 
she was looking out from the back scenes with some curi- 
osity towards Pen's box, and the family party assembled 
in it. 

There was but one voice in her praise there. Mrs. Pen- 
dennis was in ecstasies with her beauty. Little Laura was 
bewildered by the piece and the Ghost, and the play within 
the play, but cried out great praises of that beautiful young 
creature, Ophelia. Pen was charmed with the effect which 
she produced on his mother, and the clergyman on his part 
was exceedingly enthusiastic. 

When the curtain fell upon that group of slaughtered 
personages who are despatched so suddenly at the end of 
" Hamlet," and whose death astonished poor little Laura, 
there was an immense shouting and applause from all quar- 
ters of the house. There was a roar of bravoes rang through 
the house; Pen bellowing with the loudest. " Fotheringayl 
Fotheringay! " Even Mrs. Pendennis began to wave about 

312 



ARTHUR PENDENNIS 

her pocket-handkerchief, and little Laura danced, laughed, 
clapped, and looked up at Pen with wonder. 

If Pen had been alone with his mother in the carriage as 
they drove home that night he would have told her the 
extent of his devotion for Miss Fotheringay, but he had no 
chance to do so, and it remained for that good lady to hear 
of her boy's intimacy with the actress from good Dr. Port- 
man, who, on the following evening, happening to see Pen 
in Miss Fotheringay's company and much absorbed by her 
charms, lost no time in hurrying to Mrs. Pendennis with 
the news. Now, although Mrs. Pendennis had been wise 
enough to appreciate Pen's infatuation, she had looked upon 
it as the merest boyish fancy, induced by the glamour of the 
stage, and did not dream that there was a personal intimacy 
behind it. She heard Dr. Portman's statement in horrified 
silence, and before she slept that night had despatched let- 
ters to Major Pendennis demanding his immediate return 
from London to help her in the management of her son at 
this critical point in his youthful career. 

Although loath to leave London, Major Pendennis 
straightway came to Fair-Oaks. He came; he saw the 
situation at a glance; and after a prolonged conversation 
with Mrs. Pendennis he summoned Pen himself. That 
young man having strung up his nerves, and prepared him- 
self for the encounter, determined to face the awful uncle 
with all the courage and dignity of the famous family which 
he represented. He marched into Major Pendennis's pres- 
ence with a most severe and warlike expression, as if to say, 
" Come on, I am ready." 

The old man of the world, as he surveyed the boy's de- 
meanour, could hardly help a grin at his admirable pom- 
pous simplicity, and having a shrewd notion that threats and 
tragic exaltations would have no effect upon the boy, said 

3^3 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

with the most good-humoured smile in the world, as he 
shook Pen's passive fingers gaily: "Well, Pen, my boy, 
tell us all about it! " 

Helen was delighted with the generosity of the Major's 
good-humour. On the contrary, it quite took aback and 
disappointed poor Pen, whose nerves were strung up for 
a tragedy, and who felt that his grand entrance was alto- 
gether balked and ludicrous. He blushed and winced with 
mortified vanity and bewilderment. He felt immensely in- 
clined to begin to cry. " I — I didn't know you were come 
till just now," he said ; " is — is — town very full, I suppose? " 

If Pen could hardly gulp his tears down it was all the 
Major could do to keep from laughter. He turned round 
and shot a comical glance at Mrs. Pendennis, who, too, felt 
that the scene was at once ridiculous and sentimental. And 
so, having nothing to say, she went up and kissed Mr. Pen, 
while the Major said: " Come, come. Pen, my good fellow, 
tell us the whole story." 

Pen got back at once to his tragic and heroical air while 
he told the story of his devotion to the charming Miss 
Fotheringay, to which the Major gave quiet attention, and 
then asked many practical questions, and made so many 
remarks of a worldly-wise nature that the boy was obliged 
to give in and acknowledge the sound wisdom of them, and 
also before the interview was over he gave his mother a 
promise that he would never do anything which would 
bring shame upon the family; which promise given, the 
Major could contain his gravity at the situation no longer, 
but burst into a fit of laughter so infectious that Pen was 
obliged to join in it. This sent them with great good- 
humour into Mrs. Pendennis's drawing-room, and she was 
pleased to hear the Major and Pen laughing together as 
they walked across the hall with the Major's arm laid 

314 



ARTHUR PENDENNIS 

gayly on Pen's shoulder. The pair came to the tea-table in 
the highest spirits. The Major's politeness was beyond 
expression. He was secretly delighted with himself that 
he had been able to win such a victory over the young fel- 
low's feelings. He had never tasted such good tea, and such 
bread was only to be had in the country. He asked Mrs. 
Pendennis for one of her charming songs. He then made 
Pen sing, and was delighted at the beauty of the boy's voice: 
he made his nephew fetch his maps and drawings, and 
praised them as really remarkable works of talent in a 
young fellow: he complimented him on his French pro- 
nunciation. He flattered the simple boy to the extent of his 
ability, and when bedtime came mother and son went to 
their rooms perfectly enchanted with him. 

Unwilling to leave his work half done, the Major re- 
mained at Fair-Oaks for some time that he might watch 
his nephew's actions. Pen never rode over to Chatteris but 
that the Major found out on what errand the boy had been. 
Faithful to his plan, he gave his nephew no hindrance. 
Yet somehow the constant feeling that his uncle's eye was 
upon him made Pen go less frequently to sigh away his soul 
at the feet of his charmer than he had done before his 
uncle's arrival. But even so, and despite Pen's promise to 
his mother, the Major felt that if he were to succeed in 
permanently curing the lad of his interest in the actress, it 
would be well to have more help in achieving it. In pur- 
suance of this aim, the Major went to Chatteris himself 
privately, sought out the actress's father, and presented to 
him the practical facts of his nephew's extreme youth and 
lack of money, as hindrances to his devotion going further. 
After a rather heated argument with Captain Costigan, 
that gentleman was made to understand the situation, and 
finally gave his promise so to present the case to his daugh- 

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BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

ter, that she should herself write a letter to Pen setting forth 
her firm determination to have no more intercourse with 
him. 

Captain Costigan was as good as his word, and his letter 
to Pen was sent immediately. A few lines from Miss Costi- 
gan were enclosed. She agreed in the decision of her papa, 
pointed out several reasons why they should meet no more, 
and thanked him for his kindness and friendship. 

Major Pendennis had won a complete victory, and his 
secret delight at having rescued Pen from an unwise at- 
tachment was only equalled by his regret at the real suffer- 
ing he was obliged to allow the lad to go through. 

After receiving the letter Pen rushed wildly off to Chat- 
teris; but in vain attempted to see Miss Fotheringay, for 
whom he left a letter enclosed to her father. The enclosure 
was returned by Mr. Costigan, who begged that all corre- 
spondenc-e might end ; and after one or two further attempts 
of the lad's, Captain Costigan insisted that their acquaint- 
ance should cease. He cut Pen in the street. As Arthur 
and Foker were pacing the street one day they came upon 
the daughter on her father's arm. She passed without any 
nod of recognition. Foker felt poor Pen trembling on his 
arm. 

His uncle wanted him to travel, and his mother urged 
him, too, for he was in a state of restless unhappiness. But 
he said point blank he would not go, and his mother was 
too fond, and his uncle too wise, to force him. Whenever 
Miss Fotheringay acted, he rode over to the Chatteris thea- 
tre and saw her; and between times found the life at Fair- 
Oaks extremely dreary and uninteresting. He sometimes 
played backgammon with his mother, or took dinner with 
Dr. Portman or some other neighbour; these were the 
chief of his pleasures; or he would listen to his mother's 

316 



ARTHUR PENDENNIS 

simple music of summer evenings. But he was very rest- 
less and wretched in spite of all. By the pond and under 
a tree, which was his favourite resort in moods of depres- 
sion, Pen, at that time, composed a number of poems suit- 
able to his misery — over which verses he blushed in after 
days, wondering how he could have ever invented such 
rubbish. He had his hot and cold fits, his days of sullen- 
ness and peevishness, and occasional mad paroxysms of rage 
and longing, in which fits his horse would be saddled and 
galloped fiercely about the country, bringing him back in 
such a state of despair as brought much worry to his mother 
and the Major. In fact, Pen's attitude towards life and his 
actions at that time were so unlike what they should have 
been at his age that his proceedings tortured his mother 
not a little, and her anxiety would have led her often to 
interfere with Pen's doings had not the Major constantly 
checked her; fancying that he saw a favourable turn in 
Pen's malady, which was shown by a violent attack of writ- 
ing verses; also spouting them as he sat with the home 
party of evenings; and one day the Major found a great 
bookful of original verses in the lad's study. Also he dis- 
covered that the young gentleman had a very creditable 
appetite for his meals, and slept soundly at night. From 
these symptoms the Major argued that Pen was leaving 
behind him his infatuation. 

Dr. Portman was of the opinion that Pen should go to 
college. He thought the time had come for the boy to 
leave his old surroundings, and, besides study, have a mod- 
erate amount of the best society, too. Pen, who was thor- 
oughly out of harmony with his present surroundings, 
gloomily said he would go, and in consequence of this de- 
cision not many weeks later the widow and Laura nervously 
set about filling trunks with his books, and linen, and making 

317 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

all necessary preparation for his departure, writing cards 
with the name of Arthur Pendennis, Esquire, which were 
duly nailed on the boxes; at which both the widow and 
Laura looked with tearful eyes. 

A night soon came when the coach, with echoing horn 
and blazing lamps, stopped at the lodge gate of Fair-Oaks, 
and Pen's trunks and his Uncle's were placed on the roof 
of the carriage, into which the pair presently afterwards 
entered. Mrs. Pendennis and Laura were standing by the 
evergreens of the shrubbery, their figures lighted up by 
the coach lamps. The guard cried " All right " ; in an- 
other instant the carriage whirled onward; the lights dis- 
appeared, and his mother's heart and prayers went with 
them. Her sainted benedictions followed the departing 
boy. He had left the home-nest in which he had been chaf- 
ing; eager to go forth and try his restless wings. 

How lonely the house was without him! The corded 
trunks and book-boxes were there in his empty study. Laura 
asked leave to come and sleep in her aunt's room : and when 
she cried herself to sleep there, the mother went softly into 
Pen's vacant chamber, and knelt down by the bed on which 
the moon shone, and there prayed for her boy, as mothers 
only know how to plead. 

Pen passed a few days at the Major's lodgings in London, 
of which he wrote a droll account to his dearest mother; 
and she and Laura read that letter, and those which fol- 
lowed, many, many times, and brooded over them, while 
Pen and the Major were arriving at Oxbridge; and Pen 
was becoming acquainted with his surroundings. The boxes 
that his mother had packed with so much care arrived in a 
few days. Pen was touched as he read the cards in the 
dear well-known hand, and as he arranged in their places 
all the books, and all the linen and table-cloths which Helen 

318 



ARTHUR PENDENNIS 

had selected for him from the family stock, and all the 
hundred simple gifts of home. Then came the Major's 
leave-taking, and truth to tell our friend Pen was not sorry 
when he was left alone to enter upon his new career, and we 
may be sure that the Major on his part was very glad to 
have done his duty by Pen, and to have finished that irk- 
some work. Having left Pen in the company of Harry 
Foker, who would introduce him to the best set at the Uni- 
versity, the Major rushed off to London and again took up 
his accustomed life. 

We are not about to go through young Pen's academical 
career very minutely. During the first term of his uni- 
versity life he attended lectures with tolerable regularity, 
but soon discovering that he had little taste for pursuing 
the exact sciences, he gave up his attendance at that course 
and announced that he proposed to devote himself exclu- 
sively to Greek and Roman Literature. 

Mrs. Pendennis was for her part quite satisfied that her 
darling boy should pursue that branch of learning for 
which he had the greatest inclination; and only besought 
him not to ruin his health by too much study, for she had 
heard the most melancholy stories of young students who 
by overfatigue had brought on brain-fevers, and perished 
untimely in the midst of their university career. Pen's 
health, which was always delicate, was to be regarded, as 
she justly said, beyond all considerations or vain honours. 
Pen, although not aware of any lurking disease which was 
likely to endanger his life, yet kindly promised his mamma 
not to sit up reading too late of nights, and stuck to his 
word in this respect with a great deal more tenacity of 
resolution than he exhibited upon some other occasions, 
when perhaps he was a little remiss. • 

Presently he began to find that he learned little good in 

319 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

the classical lecture. His fellow-students there were too 
dull, as in mathematics they were too learned for him. Pen 
grew weary of hearing the students and tutor blunder 
through a few lines of a play which he could read in a tenth 
part of the time which they gave to it. After all, private 
reading, he decided, was the only study which was really 
profitable, and he announced to his mamma that he should 
read by himself a great deal more and in public a great deal 
less. That excellent woman knew no more about Homer 
than she did about Algebra, but she was quite contented 
with Pen's arrangements regarding his course of study, and 
felt perfectly confident that her dear boy would get the 
place which he merited. 

Pen did not come home until after Christmas, a little to 
the fond mother's disappointment, and Laura's, who was 
longing for him to make a fine snow fortification, such as 
he had made three winters before. But he was invited to 
Logwood, Lady Agnes Foker's, where there were private 
theatricals, and a gay Christmas party of very fine folks, 
some of whom Major Pendennis would on no account have 
his nephew neglect. However, he stayed at home for the 
last three weeks of the vacation, and Laura had the oppor- 
tunity of remarking what a quantity of fine new clothes 
he brought with him, and his mother admired his improved 
appearance and manly and decided tone. 

He had not come home at Easter; but when he arrived 
for the long vacation he brought more smart clothes; ap- 
pearing in the morning in wonderful shooting-jackets, with 
remarkable buttons ; and in the evening in gorgeous velvet 
waistcoats, with richly embroidered cravats, and curious 
linen. And as she pried about his room, she saw, oh, such 
a beautiful dressing-case, with silver mountings, and a 
quantity of lovely rings and jewellery. And he had a new 

320 



ARTHUR PENDENNIS 

French watch and gold chain, in place of the big old chro- 
nometer, with its bunch of jingling seals, which had hung 
from the fob of John Pendennis. It was but a few months 
back Pen had longed for this watch, which he thought the 
most splendid and august time-piece in the world; and 
just before he went to college, Helen had taken it out of her 
trinket box and given it to Pen with a solemn and appropri- 
ate little speech respecting his father's virtues and the proper 
use of time. This portly and valuable chronometer Pen now 
pronounced to be out of date, and indeed made some com- 
parisons between it and a warming-pan, which Laura 
thought disrespectful; and he left it in a drawer in the com- 
pany of soiled primrose gloves and cravats which had gone 
out of favour. His horse Pen pronounced no longer up to 
his weight, and swapped her for another for which he had 
to pay rather a heavy figure. Mrs. Pendennis gave the boy 
the money for the new horse, and Laura cried when the old 
one was fetched away. 

Arthur's allowances were liberal at this time, and thus 
he, the only son of a country gentleman, and of a gentle- 
man-like bearing and person, was looked up to as a lad 
of much more consequence than he really was. His man- 
ner was frank, brave and perhaps a little impertinent, as 
becomes a high-spirited youth. He was generous and free- 
handed with his money, loved joviality, and had a good 
voice for a song. He rode well to hounds, appeared in 
pink as became a young buck, and managed to run up fine 
bills in a number of quarters. In fact, he had almost every 
taste to a considerable degree. He was very fond of books 
of all sorts and had a very fair taste in matters of art; also 
a great partiality for fine clothes and expensive jewellery. 

In the course of his second year he had become one of the 
men of fashion in the University, and a leader of the faithful 

321 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

band who hung around him and wondered at him and loved 
him and imitated him. Now, it is easy to calculate that 
with such tastes as Mr. Pen possessed he must in the course 
of two or three years spend or owe a very handsome sum 
of money. As he was not of a calculating turn he certainly 
found himself frequently in debt, but this did not affect his 
gaiety of spirit. He got a prodigious in the University and 
was hailed as a sort of Crichton: and as for the English 
verse prize, although Jones carried it that year, the under- 
graduates thought Pen's a much finer poem, and he had 
his verses printed at his own expense, and distributed in 
gilt morocco covers amongst his acquaintance. 

Amidst his friends, and a host of them there were. Pen 
passed more than two brilliant and happy years. He had 
his fill of pleasure and popularity. No dinner or supper 
party was complete without him. He became the fa- 
vourite and leader of young men who were his superiors 
in wealth and station, but also did not neglect the humblest 
man of his acquaintance in order to curry favour with the 
richest young grandee in the University. He became fa- 
mous and popular: not that he did much, but there was 
a general idea that he could do a great deal if he chose. 
" Ah, if Pendennis would only try," the men said, " he 
might do anything." One by one the University honours 
were lost by him, until he ceased to compete. But he got 
a declamation prize and brought home to his mother and 
Laura a set of prize books begilt with the college arms, 
and. so magnificent that the ladies thought that Pen had 
.won the largest honour which Oxbridge was capable of 
awarding. 

Vacation after vacation passed without the desired news 
that Pen had sat for any scholarship or won any honour, 
and Pen grew rebellious and unhappy, and there was a 

322 



ARTHUR PENDENNIS 

tacit feud between Dr. Portman, who was disappointed in 
Arthur, and the lad himself. Mrs. Pendennis, hearing 
Dr. Portman prophesy that Pen would come to ruin, trem- 
bled in her heart, and little Laura also — Laura who had 
grown to be a fine young stripling, graceful and fair, cling- 
ing to her adopted mother and worshipping her with a 
passionate affection. Both of these women felt that their 
boy was changed. He was no longer the artless Pen of 
old days, so brave, so impetuous, so tender. He spent little 
of his vacations at home, but went on visits, and scared the 
quiet pair at Fair-Oaks by stories of great houses to which 
he had been invited, and by talking of lords without their 
titles. 

But even with all his weaknesses there was a kindness 
and frankness about Arthur Pendennis which won most 
people who came in contact with him, and made it impos- 
sible to resist his good-nature, or in his worst moments not 
to hope for his rescue from utter ruin. At the time of his 
career of university pleasure he would leave the gayest 
party to sit with a sick friend and was only too ready to 
share any money which he had with a poorer one. 

In his third year at college the duns began to gather 
awfully round about him, and descended upon him in such 
a number that the tutors were scandalised, and even brave- 
hearted Pen was scared. Hearing of his nephew's extrava- 
gances, Major Pendennis interviewed that young man, and 
was thunderstruck at the extent of his liabilities .after re- 
ceiving Pen's dismal confession of the trouble in which he 
was involved. 

Perhaps it was because she was so tender and good that 
Pen was terrified lest his mother should know of his sins. 
" I can't bear to break it to her," he said to the tutor, in 
an agony of grief. " Oh! sir, I've been a villain to her! " 

323 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

— and he repented, and asked himself, Why, why, did his 
uncle insist upon the necessity of living with great people, 
and in how much did all his grand acquaintance profit 
him? 

They were not shy of him, but Pen thought they were, 
and slunk from them during his last terms at college. He 
was as gloomy as a death's-head at parties, which he avoided 
of his own part, or to which his young friends soon ceased 
to invite him. Everybody knew that Pendennis was 
" hard up." 

At last came the Degree Examinations. Many a young 
man of his year, whose hob-nailed shoes Pen had derided, 
and whose face or coat he had caricatured, many a man 
whom he had treated with scorn in the lecture-room or 
crushed with his eloquence in the debating club, many of 
his own set who had not half his brains, but a little regu- 
larity and constancy of occupation, took high places in the 
honours or passed within decent credit. And where in the 
list was Pen, the superb; Pen, the wit and dandy; Pen, 
the poet and orator? Ah, where was Pen, the widow's dar- 
ling and sole pride? Let us hide our heads and shut up 
the page. The lists came out; and a dreadful rumour 
rushed through the University, that Pendennis of Boniface 
was plucked. 

During the latter part of Pen's university career the Ma- 
jor had become very proud of Arthur on account of his high 
spirits, frank manners, and high, gentleman-like bearing. 
He made more than one visit to Oxbridge and had an almost 
paternal fondness for Pen, whom he bragged about at his 
clubs, and introduced with pleasure into his conversation. 
He boasted everywhere of the boy's great talents and of the 
brilliant degree he was going to take as he wrote over and 
over again to Pen's mother, who for her part was ready to 

324 



ARTHUR PENDENNIS 

believe anything that anybody chose to say in favour of her 
son. 

And all this pride and affection of uncle and mother 
had been trampled down by Pen's wicked extravagance and 
idleness. I don't envy Pen's feelings as he thought of what 
he had done. He had marred at its outset what might have 
been a brilliant career. He had dipped ungenerously into 
a generous mother's purse, and basely and recklessly spent 
her little income. Poor Arthur Pendennis felt perfectly 
convinced that all England would remark the absence of 
his name from the examination lists and talk about his 
misfortune. His wounded tutor, his many duns, the under- 
graduates — how could he bear to look any of them in the 
face now? After receiving the news of his disgrace he 
rushed to his rooms and there penned a letter to his tutor 
full of thanks, regards, remorse and despair, requesting 
that his name might be taken off the college books, and 
intimating a wish that death might speedily end the woes 
of the disgraced Arthur Pendennis. Then he slunk out, 
scarcely knowing where he went, taking the unfrequented 
little lanes at the backs of the college buildings until he 
found himself some miles distant from Oxbridge. As he 
went up a hill, a drizzling January rain beating in his face 
and his ragged gown flying behind him, for he had not 
taken it off since the morning, a post-chaise came rattling 
up the road with a young gentleman in it who caught sight 
of poor Pen's pale face, jumped out of the carriage and 
ran towards him, exclaiming, " I say, — Hello, old boy, 
where are you going, and what's the row now? " 

" I am going where I deserve to go," said Pen. 

" This ain't the way," said his friend Spavin, smiling. 
" I say, Pen, don't take on because you are plucked. It is 
nothing when you are used to it. I've been plucked three 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

times, old boy, and after the first time I didn't care. You'll 
have better luck next time." 

Pen looked at his early acquaintance who had been 
plucked, who had been rusticated, who had only after re- 
peated failures learned to read and write correctly, but who, 
in spite of all these drawbacks had attained the honour of 
a degree. 

" This man has passed," he thought, " and I have failed." 
It was almost too much for him to bear. 

" Good-bye," said he; "I am very glad you are through. 
Don't let me keep you. I am in a hurry — I am going to 
town to-night." 

'' Gammon! " said his friend, " this ain't the way to town; 
this is the Fenbury road, I tell you." 

" I was just going to turn back," Pen said. 

" All the coaches are full with the men going down," 
Spavin said. Pen winced. " You'd not get a place for a 
ten-pound note. Get in here. I'll drop you where you 
have a chance of the Fenbury mail. I'll lend you a hat and 
coat; I've got lots. Come along; jump in, old boy — go it, 
leathers! " 

And in this way Pen found himself in Mr. Spavin's post- 
chaise and rode with that gentleman as far as the Ram Inn 
at Mudford, fifteen miles from Oxbridge, where the Fen- 
bury mail changed horses, and where Pen got a place on to 
London. 

The next day there was an immense excitement at Ox- 
bridge, where, for some time, a rumour prevailed, to the 
terror of Pen's tutor and tradesmen, that Pendennis, mad- 
dened at losing his degree, had made away with himself. 
A battered cap, in which his name was almost discernible, 
together with a seal bearing his crest of an eagle looking 
at a now extinct sun, had been found three miles on the 

326 



ARTHUR PENDENNIS 

Fenbury road, near a mill stream; and for four-and-twenty 
hours it was supposed that poor Pen had flung himself 
into the stream, until letters arrived from him, bearing the 
London post-mark. 

The coach reached London at the dreary hour of five; 
and he hastened to the inn at Covent Garden, where the 
ever-wakeful porter admitted him, and showed him to a 
bed. Pen looked hard at the man, and wondered whether 
Boots knew he was plucked? When in bed he could not 
sleep there. He tossed about restlessly until the appearance 
of daylight, when he sprang up desperately, and walked off 
to his uncle's lodgings in Bury Street. 

"Good 'evens! Mr. Arthur, what 'as 'appened, sir?" 
asked the valet, who was just carrying in his wig to the 
Major. 

" I want to see my uncle," Pen cried in a ghastly voice^ 
and flung himself down on a chair. 

The valet backed before the pale and desperate-looking 
young man, with terrified and wondering glances, and dis- 
appeared into his master's apartment, whence the Major put 
out his head as soon as he had his wig on. 

" What? Examination over? Senior Wrangler, Double 
First Class, hey?" said the old gentleman. "I'll come 
directly," and the head disappeared. 

Pen was standing with his back to the window, so that 
his uncle could not see the expression of gloomy despair 
on the young man's face. But when he held out his hand to 
Pen, and was about to address him in his cheery, high-toned 
voice, he caught sight of the boy's face; and dropping his 
hand said, " Why, Pen, what's the matter? " 

" You'll see it in the papers at breakfast, sir," Pen said. 

"See what?" 

" My name isn't there, sir." 

327 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

"Hang it, why should it be?" asked the Major, more 
perplexed. 

"I have lost everything, sir," groaned out Pen; "my 
honour's gone; I'm ruined irretrievably; I can't go back 
to Oxbridge." 

" Lost your honour? " screamed out the Major. " Heaven 
alive! You don't mean to say you have shown the white 
feather? " 

Pen laughed bitterly at the word feather, and repeated it. 
" No, it isn't that, sir. I'm not afraid of being shot; I wish 
anybody would shoot me. I have not got my degree. I — 
I'm plucked, sir." 

The Major had heard of plucking, but in a very vague 
and cursory way, and concluded that it was some ceremony 
performed corporally upon rebellious university youth. " I 
wonder you can look me in the face after such a disgrace, 
sir," he said; " I wonder you submitted to it as a gentle- 
man." 

" I couldn't help it, sir. I did my classical papers well 
enough: it was those infernal mathematics, which I have 
always neglected." 

" Was it — was it done in public, sir? " the Major said. 

" What? " 

" The — the plucking? " asked the guardian, looking Pen 
anxiously in the face. 

Pen perceived the error under which his guardian was 
labouring, and in the midst of his misery the blunder caused 
the poor wretch a faint smile, and served to bring down the 
conversation from the tragedy-key in which Pen had been 
disposed to carry it on. He explained to his uncle that he 
had gone in to pass his examination, and failed. On which 
the Major said, that though he had expected far better 
things of his nephew, there was no great misfortune in this, 

328 



ARTHUR PENDENNIS 

and no dishonour as far as he saw, and that Pen must try 
again. 

"Me again at Oxbridge!" Pen thought, "after such a 
humiliation as that? " He felt that, except he went down 
to burn the place, he could not enter it. 

But it was when he came to tell his uncle of his debts that 
the other felt surprise and anger most keenly, and broke 
out into speeches most severe upon Pen, which the lad bore, 
as best he might, without flinching. 

It appeared that his bills in all amounted to about £700; 
and furthermore it was calculated that he had had more 
than twice that sum during his stay at Oxbridge. This sum 
he had spent, and for it he had to show — what? 

" You need not press a man who is down, sir," Pen said 
to his uncle, gloomily. " I know very well how wicked 
and idle I have been. My mother won't like to see me 
dishonoured, sir," he continued, with his voice failing; 
" and I know she will pay these accounts. But I shall ask 
her for no more money." 

" As you like, sir," the Major said. " You are of age, and 
my hands are washed of your affairs. But you can't live 
without money, and have no means of making it that I 
see, though you have a fine talent in spending it, and it 
is my belief that you will proceed as you have begun, and 
ruin your mother before you are five years older. Good- 
morning; it is time for me to go to breakfast. My engage- 
ments won't permit me to see you much during the time 
that you stay in London. I presume that you will acquaint 
your mother with the news which you have just conveyed 
to me." 

And pulling on his hat, and trembling in his limbs some- 
what. Major Pendennis walked out of his lodgings before 
his nephew, and went ruefully off to take his accustomed 

329 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

corner at the club, where he saw the Oxbridge examination 
lists in the morning papers, and read over the names with 
mournful accuracy, thinking also with bitterness of the 
many plans he had formed to make a man of his nephew, 
of the sacrifices which he had made, and of the manner in 
which he was disappointed. And he wrote a letter to Dr. 
Portman telling him what had happened and begging the 
Doctor to break the sad news to Helen. Then the Major 
went out to dinner, one of the saddest men in any London 
dining-room that day. 

On receipt of the Major's letter Dr. Portman went 
at once to Fair-Oaks to break the disagreeable news to 
Mrs. Pendennis. She had already received a letter from 
Pen, and to the Doctor's great indignation she seemed to 
feel no particular unhappiness except that her darling boy 
should be unhappy. What was this degree that they made 
such an outcry about, and what good would it do Pen? 
Why did Dr. Portman and his uncle insist upon sending 
the boy where there was so much temptation to be risked, 
and so little good to be won? Why didn't they leave him 
at home with his mother? Her boy was coming back to 
her repentant and tender-hearted, — why should she want 
more? As for his debts, of course they must be paid; — his 
debts. — Wasn't his father's money all his, and hadn't he a 
right to spend it? In this way the widow met the virtuous 
Doctor, and all his anger took no eflfect upon her gentle 
bosom. 

As for Laura, Pen's little adopted sister, she was no 
longer the simple girl of Pen's college days, but a tall, slim, 
handsome young lady. At the age of sixteen she was a 
sweet young lady indeed, ordinarily pale, with a faint rose- 
tinge in her cheeks. Her eyes were very large and some 
critics said that she was in the habit of making play with 

3Z^ 



ARTHUR PENDENNIS 

those eyes, but the fact is that nature had made them so to 
shine and to look, that they could no more help so looking 
and shining than one star can help being brighter than an- 
other. It was doubtless to soften their brightness that Miss 
Laura's eyes were provided with two veils in the shape of 
the longest and finest black eyelashes. Her complexion 
was brilliant, her smile charming, while her voice was 
so low and sweet that to hear it was like listening to sweet 
music. 

Now, this same charming Miss Laura had only been 
half pleased with Pen's general conduct and bearing dur- 
ing the past two years. His letters to his mother had been 
very rare and short. It was in vain that the fond widow 
urged how constant Arthur's occupations and studies were, 
and how many his engagements. " It is better that he 
should lose a prize," Laura said, " than forget his mother: 
and indeed, Mamma, I don't see that he gets many prizes. 
Why doesn't he come home and stay with you, instead of 
passing his vacations at his great friends' fine houses? There 
is nobody there that will love him half as much as you 
do." Thus Laura declared stoutly, nor would she be con- 
vinced by any of Helen's fond arguments that the boy must 
make his way in the world ; that his uncle was most desirous 
that Pen should cultivate the acquaintance of persons who 
were likely to befriend him in life; that men had a thou- 
sand ties and calls which women could not understand, and 
so forth. 

But as soon as Miss Laura heard that Pen was unfor- 
tunate and unhappy, all her anger straightway vanished, 
giving place to the most tender compassion. He was the 
Pen of old days, the frank and affectionate, the generous 
and tender-hearted. She at once took side with Helen 
against Dr. Portman when he cried out at the enormity 

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BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

of Pen's transgressions. Debts? What were his debts? 
They were a trifle; he had been thrown into expensive 
society by his uncle's order, and of course was obliged to 
live in the same manner as the young gentlemen whose 
company he frequented. Disgraced by not getting his de- 
gree? The poor boy was ill when he went for the examina- 
tions; he couldn't think of his mathematics and stuff on 
account of those very debts which oppressed him; very 
likely some of the odious tutors and masters were jealous 
of him, and had favourites of their own whom they wanted 
to put over his head. Other people disliked him and 
were cruel to him, and were unfair to him, she was very 
sure. 

And so with flushing cheeks and eyes bright with anger 
this young creature reasoned, and went up and seized 
Helen's hand and kissed her in the Doctor's presence; and 
her looks braved the Doctor and seemed to ask how he 
dared to say a word against her darling mother's Pen? 

Directly the Doctor was gone, Laura ordered fires to be 
lighted in Mr. Arthur's rooms, and his bedding to be aired; 
and by the time Helen had completed a tender and affec- 
tionate letter to Pen, Laura had her preparations completed, 
and, smiling fondly, went with her mamma into Pen's room, 
which was now ready for him to occupy. Laura also added 
a postscript to Helen's letter, in which she called him her 
dearest friend, and bade him come home instantly and be 
happy with his mother and his affectionate Laura. 

That night when Mrs. Pendennis was lying sleepless, 
thinking of Pen, a voice at her side startled her, saying 
softly: " Mamma, are you awake? " 

It was Laura. " You know. Mamma," this young lady 
said, " that I have been living with you for ten years, dur- 
ing which time you have never taken any of my money, and 

332 



ARTHUR PENDENNIS 

have been treating me just as if I were a charity girl. Now, 
this obligation has offended me very much, because I am 
proud and do not like to be beholden to people. And as, 
if I had gone to school, only I wouldn't, it must have cost 
me as least fifty pounds a year, it is clear that I owe you 
fifty times ten pounds, which I know you have put into the 
bank at Chatteris for me, and which doesn't belong to me 
a bit. Now, to-morrow we will go to Chatteris, and see 
that nice old Mr. Rowdy, with the bald head, and ask him 
for it, — not for his head, but for the five hundred pounds; 
and I daresay he will lend you two more, which we will 
save and pay back, and we will send the money to Pen, 
who can pay all his debts without hurting anybody, and 
then we will live happy ever after." 

What Mrs. Pendennis replied to this speech need not be 
repeated, but we may be sure that its terms were those of 
the deepest gratitude, and that the widow lost no time in 
writing off to Pen an account of the noble, the magnificent 
offer of Laura, filling up her letter with a profusion of 
benedictions upon both her children. 

As for Pen, after being deserted by the Major, and writ- 
ing his letter to his mother, he skulked about London streets 
for the rest of the day, fancying that everybody was look- 
ing at him and whispering to his neighbour, " That is Pen- 
dennis of Boniface, who was plucked yesterday." His let- 
ter to his mother was full of tenderness and remorse: he 
wept the bitterest tears over it, and the repentance soothed 
him to some degree. 

On the second day of his London wanderings there came 
a kind letter from his tutor, containing many grave and 
appropriate remarks upon what had befallen him, but 
strongly urging Pen not to take his name off the University 
books, and to retrieve a disaster which everybody knew was 

333 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

owing to his own carelessness alone, and which he might 
repair by a month of application. 

On the third day there arrived the letter from home 
which Pen read in his bedroom, and the result of which was 
that he fell down on his knees, with his head in the bed- 
clothes, and there prayed out his heart, and humbled him- 
self; and having gone downstairs and eaten an immense 
breakfast, he sallied forth and took his place at the Bull 
and Mouth, Piccadilly, on the Chatteris coach for that 
evening. 

And so the Prodigal came home, and the fatted calf was 
killed for him, and he was made as happy as two simple 
women could make him. 

For some time he said no power on earth could induce 
him to go back to Oxbridge again after his failure there; 
but one day Laura said to him, with many blushes, that she 
thought, as some sort of reparation, or punishment on him- 
self for his idleness, he ought to go back and get his degree 
if he could fetch it by doing so; and so back Mr. Pen went. 

A plucked man is a dismal being in a university; belong- 
ing to no set of men there and owned by no one. Pen felt 
himself plucked indeed of all the fine feathers which he 
had won during his brilliant years, and rarely appeared out 
of his college; regularly going to morning chapel and shut- 
ting himself up in his rooms of nights, away from the noise 
and suppers of the undergraduates. The men of his years 
had taken their degrees and were gone. He went into a 
second examination, and passed with perfect ease. He was 
somewhat more easy in his mind when he appeared in his 
bachelor's gown, and could cast aside the hated badge of 
disgrace. 

On his way back from Oxbridge he paid a visit to his 
uncle in London, hoping that gentleman would accept his 

334 



ARTHUR PENDENNIS 

present success in place of his past failure, but the old gen- 
tleman received him with very cold looks, and would 
scarcely give him his forefinger to shake. He called a 
second time, but the valet said his master was not at home. 

So Pen went back to Fair-Oaks. True, he had retrieved 
his failure, had won his honours, but he came back to his 
home a very different fellow from the bright-faced youth 
who had gone out into college life some years before. He 
no longer laughed, sang, or rollicked about the house as 
of old; he had tasted of the fruit of the awful Tree of Life 
which from the beginning had tempted all mankind, and 
which had changed Arthur Pendennis the light-hearted 
boy into a man. Young, he is, of course, and still awaiting 
the development which life's deeper experiences are to 
bring, but nevertheless he is not again to taste the joy, the 
zest, or the enthusiasm which come to careless boyhood. 

Arthur Pendennis is now a competitor among the ranks 
of men striving after life's prizes, and this narrative of his 
boyhood ends. 



335 



CAROLINE 



337 




Miss Caroline and Becky. 



CAROLINE 



SINCE the time of Cinderella the First there have 
been many similar instances in real life of the perse- 
cution of youth by family injustice and cruelty, 
and no case more strikingly similar than that of 
Miss Caroline Brandenburg Gann, whose youthful 
career was one of monotonous hardship and injustice until 
the arrival of her fairy prince. 

The story is a short one to relate, but to live through the 
days and months of sixteen unhappy years seemed an eternal 
process to the young heart beating high with hopes which 
must constantly be stifled, and give place to bitter disap- 
pointment. 

But to go back for a moment to the time when Louis 
XVIIL was restored a second time to the throne of his 
father, and all the English who had money or leisure rushed 
over to the Continent. At that time there lived in a cer- 
tain boarding-house at Brussels a lady who was called Mrs. 
Crabb; and her daughter, a genteel young widow, who 
bore the name of Mrs. Wellesley McCarty. Previous to 
this Mrs. McCarty, who was then Miss Crabb, had run 
off one day with a young Ensign, who possessed not a shil- 
ling, and who speedily died, leaving his widow without 
property, but with a remarkably fine pair of twins, named 
Rosalind Clancy and Isabella Finigan Wellesley McCarty. 
The young widow being left penniless, her mother, who 

339 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

had disowned the runaway couple, was obliged to become 
reconciled to her daughter and to share her small income 
of one hundred and twenty pounds a year with her. Upon 
this at the boarding-house in Brussels the two managed to 
live. The twins were put out, after the foreign fashion, to 
nurse, and a village in the neighbourhood, and the widow 
and her mother maintained a very good appearance despite 
their small income; and it was not long before the Widow 
McCarty married a young Englishman, James Gann, Esq. 
— of the great oil-house of Gann, Blubbery, and Gann, — 
who was boarding in the same house with Mrs. Crabb and 
her daughter. These ladies, who had their full share of 
common sense, took care to keep the twins in the background 
until such time as the Widow McCarty had become Mrs. 
Gann. Then on the day after the wedding, in the presence 
of many friends who had come to offer their congratula- 
tions, a stout nurse, bearing the two chubby little ones, made 
her appearance; and these rosy urchins, springing forward, 
shouted affectionately, '' Maman! Maman!" to the great 
astonishment and bewilderment of James Gann, who well- 
nigh fainted at this sudden paternity so put upon him. 
However, being a good-humoured, soft-hearted man, he 
kissed his lady hurriedly, and vowed that he would take 
care of the poor little things, whom he would also have 
kissed, but the darlings refused his caress with many 
roars. 

Soon after their marriage Mr. and Mrs. James Gann 
returned to England and occupied a house in Thames 
Street, City, until the death of Gann, Sr., when his son, 
becoming head of the firm, mounted higher on the social 
ladder and went to live in the neighbourhood of Putney, 
where a neat box, a couple of spare bedrooms, a good cellar, 
and a smart gig made a real gentleman of him. About 

340 



CAROLINE 

this period, a daughter was bom to him, called Caroline 
Blandenburg Gann, so named after a large mansion near 
Hammersmith, and an injured queen who lived there at 
the time of the little girl's birth. 

At this time Mrs. James Gann sent the twins, Rosalind 
Clancy and Isabella Finigan Wellesley McCarty, to a 
boarding-school for young ladies, and grumbled much at 
the amount of the bills which her husband was obliged to 
pay for them; for, although James discharged them with 
perfect good-humour, his lady began to entertain a mean 
opinion indeed of her pretty young children. They could 
expect no fortune, she said, from Mr. Gann, and she won- 
dered that he should think of bringing them up expensively, 
when he had a darling child of his own for whom to save 
all the money that he could lay by. 

Grandmamma, too, doted on the little Caroline Branden- 
burg, and vowed that she would leave her three thousand 
pounds to this dear infant; for in this way does the world 
show its respect for that most respectable thing, prosperity, 
and little Caroline was the daughter of prosperous James 
Gann. 

Little Caroline, then, had her maid, her airy nursery, her 
little carriage to drive in, the promise of her grandmamma's 
money, and her mamma's undivided affection. Gann, too, 
loved her sincerely in his careless good-humoured way; but 
he determined, notwithstanding, that his step-daughters 
should have something handsome at his death, but — but for 
a great But. 

Gann and Blubbery were in the oil line; their profits 
arose from contracts for lighting a great number of streets in 
London; and about this period gas came into use. The firm 
of Gann and Blubbery had been so badly managed, I am 
sorry to say, and so great had been the extravagance of both 

341 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

partners and their ladies, that they only paid their creditors 
fourteen-pence halfpenny in the pound. 

When Mrs. Crabb heard of this dreadful accident she at 
once proclaimed James Gann to be a swindler, a villain, a 
disreputable, vulgar man, and made over her money to the 
Misses Rosalind Clancy and Isabella Finigan McCarty, 
leaving poor little Caroline without a cent of legacy. Half 
of one thousand five hundred pounds allotted to each twin 
was to be paid at marriage, the other half on the death of 
Mrs. James Gann, who was to enjoy the interest thereof. 
Thus did the fortunes of little Caroline alter in a single 
night! Thus did Cinderella enter upon the period of her 
loneliness! 

After James Gann's failure his family lived in various 
uncomfortable ways, until at length Mrs. Gann opened a 
lodging-house in a certain back street in the town of Mar- 
gate, on the door of which house might be read in gleaming 
, brass the name of MR. GANN. It was the work of a 
single smutty servant-maid to clean this brass plate every 
morning, and to attend to the wants of Mr. Gann, his family, 
and lodgers. In this same house Mr. Gann had his office, 
though if truth be told he had nothing to do from morning 
until night. He was very much changed, poor fellow! He 
was now a fat, bald-headed man of fifty whose tastes were 
no longer aristocratic, and who loved public-house jokes and 
company. 

As for Mrs. Gann, she had changed, too, under the pres- 
sure of misfortune. Her chief occupation was bragging 
of her former acquaintances, taking medicine, and mending 
and altering her gowns. She had a huge taste for cheap 
finery, loved raffles, tea-parties, and walks on the pier, where 
she flaunted herself and daughters as gay as butterflies. She 
stood upon her rank, did not fail to tell her lodgers that she 

342 



CAROLINE 

was " a gentlewoman," and was mighty sharp with Becky, 
the maid, and Carrie, her youngest child. 

For the tide of affection had turned now, and the Misses 
Wellesley McCarty were the darlings of their mother's 
heart, as Caroline had been in the early days of Putney 
prosperity. Mrs. Gann respected and loved her elder 
daughters, the stately heiresses of £1500, and scorned poor 
Caroline, who was likewise scorned, like Cinderella, by her 
brace of haughty, thoughtless sisters. These young women 
were tall, well-grown, black-browed girls, fond of fun, and 
having great health and spirits. They had pink cheeks, 
white shoulders, and many glossy curls about their shining 
foreheads. Such charms cannot fail of having their effect, 
and it was very lucky for Caroline that she did not possess 
them, or she might have been as vain, frivolous, and vulgar 
as these young ladies were. As it was, Caroline was pale 
and thin, with fair hair and neat grey eyes; nobody thought 
her a beauty in her moping cotton gown, and while her 
sisters enjoyed their pleasures and tea-parties abroad, it was 
Carrie's usual fate to remain at home and help the servant 
in the many duties which were required in Mrs. Gann's 
establishment. She dressed her mamma and her sisters, 
brought her papa his tea in bed, kept the lodgers' bills, bore 
their scoldings, and sometimes gave a hand in the kitchen 
if any extra cookery was required. At two she made a little 
toilette for dinner, and was employed on numberless house- 
hold darnings and mendings in the long evenings while her 
sisters giggled over the jingling piano. Mamma lay on the 
, sofa, and Gann was at the club. A weary lot, in sooth, was 
yours, — poor little Caroline. Since the days of your in- 
fancy, not one hour of sunshine, no friendship, no cheery 
playfellows, no mother's love! Only James Gann, of all the 
household, had a good-natured look for her, and a coarse 

343 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

word of kindness, but Caroline did not complain, nor shed 
any tears. Her misery was dumb and patient; she felt that 
she was ill-treated, and had no companion; but was not on 
that account envious, only humble and depressed, not de- 
siring so much to resist as to bear injustice, and hardly 
venturing to think for herself. This tyranny and humility 
served her in place of education and formed her manners, 
which were wonderfully gentle and calm. It was strange 
to see such a person growing up in such a family, and the 
neighbours spoke of her with much scornful compassion. 
" A poor half-witted thing," they said, " who could not say 
bo! to a goose." And I think it is one good test of gentility 
to be thus looked down on by vulgar people. 

I have said that Miss Caroline had no friend in the world 
except her father, but one friend she most certainly had, and 
that was honest Becky, the smutty maid, whose name has 
been mentioned before. A great comfort it was for Caroline 
to descend to the calm kitchen from the stormy back-par- 
lour, and there vent some of her little woes to the compas- 
sionate servant of all work. 

When Mrs. Gann went out with her daughters Becky 
would take her work and come and keep Miss Caroline 
company; and, if the truth must be told, the greatest en- 
joyment the pair used to have was in these afternoons, when 
they read together out of the precious, greasy, marble- 
covered volumes that Mrs. Gann was in the habit of fetching 
from the library. Many and many a tale had the pair so 
gone through. I can see them over " Manf rone ; or the One- 
handed Monk," the room dark, the street silent, the hour 
ten, the tall, red, lurid candlewick waggling down, the flame 
flickering pale upon Miss Caroline's pale face as she read 
out, and lighting up honest Becky's goggling eyes, who sat 
silent, her work in her lap ; she had not done a stitch of it 

344 



CAROLINE 

for an hour. As the trapdoor slowly opens, and the scowl- 
ing Alonzo, bending over the sleeping Imoinda, draws his 
pistol, cocks it, looks well if the priming be right, places it 
then to the sleeper's ear, and— thunder under-under—down 
fall the snufifers! Becky has had them in her hand for ten 
minutes, afraid to use them. Up starts Caroline and flings 
the book back into mamma's basket. It is only that lady re- 
turned with her daughters from a tea-party, where they 
have been enjoying themselves. 

For the sentimental, too, as well as the terrible. Miss 
Caroline and the cook had a strong predilection, and had 
wept their poor eyes out over " Thaddeus of Warsaw " and 
the " Scottish Chiefs." Fortified by the examples drawn 
from those instructive volumes, Becky was firmly convinced 
that her young mistress would meet with a great lord some 
day or other, or be carried off, like Cinderella, by a brilliant 
prince, to the mortification of her elder sisters, whom Becky 
hated. 

When, therefore, a new lodger came, lonely, mysterious, 
melancholy, elegant, with the romantic name of George 
Brandon — when he actually wrote a letter directed to a 
lord, and Miss Caroline and Becky together examined the 
superscription, Becky's eyes were lighted up with a preter- 
natural look of wondering wisdom; whereas, after an 
instant, Caroline dropped hers, and blushed and said, 
*' Nonsense, Becky! " 

"Is it nonsense?" said Becky, grinning, and snapping 
her fingers with a triumphant air; "the cards come true; 
I knew they would. Didn't you have a king and queen of 
hearts three deals running? What did you dream about 
last Tuesday, tell me that? " 

But Miss Caroline never did tell, for just then her sisters 
came bouncing down the stairs, and examined the lodger's 

345 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

letter. Caroline, however, went away musing much upon 
these points; and she began to think Mr. Brandon more 
wonderful and beautiful every day, whereas he was remark- 
able for nothing except very black eyes, a sallow face, and a 
habit of smoking cigars in bed till noon. His name of 
George Brandon was only an assumed one. He was really 
the son of a half-pay Colonel, of good family, who had been 
sent to Eton to acquire an education. From Eton he went to 
Oxford, took honours there, but ran up bills amounting to 
two thousand pounds. Then there came fury on the part 
of his stern old " governor "; and final payment of the debt, 
but while this settlement was pending Master George had 
contracted many more debts and was glad to fly to the 
Continent as tutor to young Lord Cinqbars, and afterwards 
went into retirement at Margate until his father's wrath 
should be appeased. For that reason we find him a member 
of the Gann establishment, flirting when occasion seemed to 
demand it with mother and daughters, and taking occasional 
notice of little Caroline, who frequently broiled his cutlets. 

Mrs. Gann's other lodger was a fantastic youth, Andrea 
Fitch, to whom his art, and his beard and whiskers, were 
the darlings of his heart. He was a youth of poetic tem- 
perament, whose long pale hair fell over a high polished 
brow, which looked wonderfully thoughtful; and yet no 
man was more guiltless of thinking. He was always putting 
himself into attitudes, and his stock-in-trade were various 
theatrical properties, which when arranged in his apart- 
ments on the second floor made a tremendous show. 

The Misses Wellesley McCarty voted this Mr. Fitch an 
elegant young fellow, and before long the intimacy between 
the young people was considerable, for Mr. Fitch insisted 
upon drawing the portraits of the whole family. 

" I suppose you will do my Carrie next? " said Mr. Gann, 

346 



CAROLINE 

one day, expressing his approbation of a portrait just fin- 
ished, wherein the Misses McCarty were represented em- 
bracing one another. 

" Law, sir," exclaimed Miss Linda, " Carrie, with her red 
hair! " 

" Mr. Fitch might as well paint Becky, our maid! " cried 
Miss Bella. 

"Carrie is quite impossible, Gann," said Mrs. Gann; 
" she hasn't a gown fit to be seen in. She's not been at 
church for thirteen Sundays in consequence." 

•" And more shame for you, ma'am," said Mr. Gann, who 
liked his child ; " Carrie shall have a gown, and the best of 
gowns;"* and jingling three and twenty shillings in his 
pocket, Mr. Gann determined to spend them all in the pur- 
chase of a robe for Carrie, But, alas, the gown never came; 
half the money was spent that very evening at the tavern. 

"Is that — that young lady your daughter?" asked Mr. 
Fitch, surprised, for he fancied Carrie was a humble com- 
panion of the family. 

" Yes, she is, and a very good daughter, too, sir," answered 
Mr. Gann. ''Fetch and Carrie I call her, or else Carry- 
van ; she is so useful. Ain't you, Carrie? " 

" I'm very glad if I am, Papa," said the young lady, 
blushing violently. 

" Hold your tongue. Miss!" said her mother; "you are 
very expensive to us, that you are, and need not brag about 
the work you do, and if your sisters and me starve to keep 
you, and some other folks " (looking fiercely at Mr. Gann), 
" I presume you are bound to make some return." 

Poor Caroline was obliged to listen to this harangue on 
her own ill-conduct in silence. As it was the first lecture 
Mr. Fitch had heard on the subject, he naturally set down 
Caroline for a monster. Was she not idle, sulky, scornful, 

347 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

and a sloven? For these and many more of her daughter's 
vices Mrs. Gann vouched, declaring that Caroline's be- 
haviour was hastening her own death; and she finished by a 
fainting fit. In the presence of all these charges, there stood 
Miss Caroline, dumb, stupid and careless; nay, when the 
fainting-fit came on, and Mrs. Gann fell back on the sofa, 
the unfeeling girl took the opportunity to retire, and never 
offered to rub her mamma's hands, to give her the smelling 
bottle, or to restore her with a glass of water. 

Mr. Fitch stood close at hand, for at the time he was 
painting Mrs. Gann's portrait — and he was hastily making 
towards her with his tumbler, when Miss Linda cried out, 
" Stop! the water is full of paint! " and straightway burst 
out laughing. Mrs. Gann jumped up at this, cured sud- 
denly, and left the room, looking somewhat foolish. 

"You don't know Ma," said Miss Linda, still giggling; 
" she's always fainting." 

" Poor dear lady! " said the artist; " I pity her from my 
inmost soul. Doesn't the himmortal bard observe how 
sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child? 
And is it true, ma'am, that that young woman has been the 
ruin of her family? " 

" Ruin of her fiddlestick! " replied Miss Bella. " Law, 
Mr. Fitch, you don't know Ma yet; she is in one of her 
tantrums." 

"What, then, it isnt true!" cried simple-minded Fitch. 
To which neither of the young ladies made any answer in 
words, nor could the little artist comprehend why they 
looked at each other and burst out laughing. But he retired 
pondering on what he had seen and heard, and being a very 
soft young fellow, most implicitly believed the accusations 
of poor dear Mrs. Gann for a time. 

Presently, however, those opinions changed, and the 

348 



CAROLINE 

change was brought about by watching closely the trend of 
domestic affairs in the Gann establishment. After a fort- 
night of close observation the artist, though by no means 
quick of comprehension, began to see that the nightly 
charges brought against poor Caroline could not be founded 
upon truth. 

" Let's see," mused he to himself. " Tuesday the old lady 
said her daughter was bringing her grey hairs with sorrow 
to the grave, because the cook had not boiled the potatoes. 
Wednesday she said Caroline was an assassin, because she 
could not find her own thimble. Thursday she vowed Caro- 
line had no religion, because that old pair of silk stockings 
were not darned; and this can't be," reasoned Fitch. "A 
gal ain't a murderess, because her ma can't find her thimble. 
A woman that goes to slap her grown-up daughter on the 
back, and before company too, for such a paltry thing as an 
old pair of stockings, can't be surely speaking the truth." 
And thus gradually his first impression against Caroline 
wore away, and pity took possession of his soul, pity for the 
meek little girl, who, though trampled upon, was now 
springing up to womanhood; and though pale, freckled, 
thin, meanly dressed, had a certain charm about her which 
some people preferred to the cheap splendours and rude 
red and white of the Misses McCarty, and which was calcu- 
lated to touch the heart of anyone who watched her care- 
fully. 

On account of Mr. Brandon's correspondence with the 
aristocracy that young gentleman was highly esteemed by 
the family with whom he lodged for a time. Then, how- 
ever, he bragged so much, and assumed such airs of superi- 
ority, that he perfectly disgusted Mrs. Gann and the Misses 
McCarty, who did not at all like his way of telling them 
that he was their better. But James Gann looked up to Mr. 

349 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

Brandon with deepest wonder as a superior being. And 
poor little Caroline followed her father's faith and in six 
weeks after Mr. Brandon's arrival had grown to believe 
him the most perfect, polished, agreeable of mankind. 
Indeed, the poor girl had never seen a gentleman before, 
and towards such her gentle heart turned instinctively. 
Brandon never offended her by hard words; or insulted her 
by cruel scorn such as she met with from her mother and 
sisters; and so Caroline felt that he was their superior, and 
as such admired and respected him. 

Consequently one day when he condescended to dine with 
the family at three o'clock, there being another guest as 
well, one Mr. Swigby, Caroline felt it to be one of the 
greatest occasions of her life, and was fairly trembling with 
pleasure, when, dinner being half over, she stole gently into 
the room and took her ordinary place near her father. I 
do believe she would have been starved, but Gann was much 
too good-natured to allow any difference to be made be- 
tween her and her sisters in the matter of food. An old 
rickety wooden stool was placed for her, instead of that 
elegant and comfortable Windsor chair which supported 
every other person at table; by the side of the plate stood a 
curious old battered tin mug bearing the inscription " Caro- 
line." These, in truth, were poor Caroline's mug and stool, 
having been appropriated to her from childhood upwards; 
and here it was her custom meekly to sit and eat her daily 
meal. 

Caroline's pale face was very red ; for she had been in the 
kitchen helping Becky, and had been showing her respect 
for the great Mr. Brandon by cooking in her best manner a 
certain dish for which her papa had often praised her. She 
took her place, blushing violently when she saw him, and 
if Mr. Gann had not been making a violent clattering with 

350 



CAROLINE 

his knife and fork, it is possible that he might have heard 
Miss Caroline's heart thump, which it did violently. Her 
dress was somehow a little smarter than usual, and Becky, 
who brought in the hashed mutton, looked at her young 
lady complacently, as, loaded with plates, she quitted the 
room. Indeed, the poor girl deserved to be looked at: there 
was an air of gentleness and innocence about her which was 
very touching, and which the two young men did not fail to 
remark. 

" You are very late, miss ! " cried Mrs. Gann, who afifected 
not to know what had caused her daughter's delay. " You 
are always late! " and the elder girls stared and grinned at 
each other knowingly, as they always did when mamma 
made such attacks upon Caroline, who only kept her eyes 
down upon the table-clpth, and began to eat her dinner 
without saying a word. 

" Come, come, my dear," cried honest Gann, " if she is 
late, you know why! Our Carrie has been downstairs 
making the pudding for her old pappy; and a good pudding 
she makes, I can tell you! " 

Miss Caroline blushed more deeply than ever; Mr. Fitch 
stared her full in the face; Mrs. Gann said "Nonsense!" 
and " StufI!" very majestically; Mr. Brandon alone inter- 
posed in Caroline's favour; and the words that he said were 
so kindly, so inspiring to Caroline that she cared not a 
straw whatever else might be said about her. " Mamma 
may say what she pleases to-day," thought Caroline. " I 
am too happy to be made angry by her." 

But poor little mistaken Caroline did not know how soon 
her feelings were to be harassed again beyond endurance. 
The dinner had not advanced much further, when Miss 
Isabella, who had been examining Caroline curiously for 
some time, telegraphed across the table to Miss Linda, and 

351 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

nodded and winked, and pointed to her own neck, on which 
was a smart necklace of the lightest blue glass beads finish- 
ing in a neat tassel. Linda had a similar ornament of a 
vermilion colour, whereas Caroline wore a handsome new 
collar and a brooch, which looked all the smarter for the 
shabby frock over which they were placed. As soon as she 
saw her sister's signals the poor little thing blushed deeply 
again ; down went her eyes once more, and her face and neck 
lighted up to the colour of Miss Linda's sham cornelian. 

" What's the gals giggling and oggling about? " asked 
Mr. Gann innocently. 

" What is it, my darling love? " asked stately Mrs. Gann. 

" Why, don't you see. Ma? " said Linda. " Look at Miss 
Carrie! I'm blessed if she hasn't got on Becky's collar and 
brooch, that Sims the pilot gave her!" 

The young ladies fell back in uproarious fits of laughter, 
and laughed all the time that their mamma was declaring 
her daughter's conduct unworthy a gentlewoman, and bid- 
ding her leave the room and take ofif those disgraceful orna- 
ments. 

There was no need to tell her; the poor little thing gave 
one piteous look at her father, who was whistling, and 
seemed indeed to think the matter a good joke; and after 
she had managed to open the door down she went to the 
kitchen, and when she reached that humble place of refuge 
first pulled off Becky's collar and brooch, and then flung 
herself into the arms of that honest maid, where she cried 
and cried till she brought on the first fit of hysterics that ever 
she had had. 

This crying could not at first be heard in the parlour, 
where the company were roaring at the excellence of the 
joke, but presently the laughter died away, and the sound 
of weeping came from the kitchen below. This the young 

352 



CAROLINE 

artist could not bear, but bounced up from his chair and 
rushed out of the room, exclaiming, " By Jove, it's too bad! " 

From the scene of merriment he rushed forth and out of 
the house into the dark, wet streets, fired with one impulse, 
inspired by one purpose: — to resist the tyranny of Mrs. 
Gann towards poor Caroline; to protect the gentle girl from 
the injustice of which she was the victim. All his sympa- 
thies from that moment were awakened in Caroline's favour. 

As for Mr. Brandon, whom Caroline in the depths of her 
little silly heart had set down for the wondrous fairy prince 
who was to deliver her from her present miserable con- 
dition, he was a man to whom opposition acted ever as a 
spur. Up to this time he had given little or no thought to 
the young girl with the pale face and quiet manner, but now 
he was amused, and his interest was awakened by the indig- 
nation of Mr. Fitch. He was piqued also by the system of 
indifference to his charms indulged in by Caroline's older 
sisters, and determined to revenge himself upon them for 
their hardness of heart by devotion to Caroline. As he 
wrote in a letter that very day: '' I am determined through 
a third daughter, a family Cinderella, to make her sisters 
quiver with envy. I merely mean fun, for Cinderella is but 
a little child. ... I wish I had paper enough to write 
you an account of a Gann dinner at which I have just as- 
sisted, and of a scene which there took place; and how 
Cinderella was dressed out, not by a fairy, but by a chari- 
table kitchen maid, and was turned out of the room by her 
indignant mamma for appearing in the maid's finery. . . ." 

This, and much more, Mr. Brandon, who at once turned 
his attention to being excessively kind and polite to our 
humble Cinderella. Caroline, being a most romantic little 
girl, and having read many novels, depicted Brandon in a 
fancy costume such as her favourite hero wore, or fancied 

353 



BOYS AND GIRLS from THACKERAY 

herself as the heroine, watching her knight go forth to 
battle. Silly fancies, no doubt; but consider the poor girl's 
age and education ; the only instruction she had ever re- 
ceived was from these tender, kind-hearted, silly books; the 
only happiness which fate had allowed her was in this little 
silent world of fancy. It would be hard to grudge the poor 
thing her dreams; and many such did she have, and tell 
blushingly to honest Becky as they sat by the kitchen fire, 
while indignation was growing apace in the breasts of her 
mother and sisters at the sight of so much interest centred 
on so poor an object. And even so did the haughty sisters of 
Cinderella the First feel and act. 

But Cinderella's kitchen days were fast drawing to an 
end, even as she, a pale slip of a girl, was budding into 
womanhood. 

One evening Mrs. Gann and the Misses McCarty had the 
honour of entertaining Mr. Swigby at tea, and that gentle- 
man, in return for the courtesy shown him by Mrs. Gann, 
invited the young ladies and their mamma to drive with him 
the next day into the country; for which excursion he had 
hired a very smart barouche. The invitation was not de- 
clined, and Mr. Fitch, too, was asked, and accepted with the 
utmost delight. " Me and Swigby will go on the box," said 
Gann. " You four ladies and Mr. Fitch shall go inside. 
Carrie must go between; but she ain't very big." 

" Carrie, indeed, will stop at home!" said her mamma. 
At this poor Fitch's jaw fell; he had agreed to accompany 
the party only for the pleasure of being in the company of 
little Caroline, nor could he escape now, having just ac- 
cepted so eagerly. 

"Oh, don't let's have that proud Brandon!" exclaimed 
the young ladies, in consequence of which that gentleman 
was not invited to join the excursion. 

354 



CAROLINE 

The day was bright and sunshiny. Poor Caroline, watch- 
ing the barouche and its load drive off, felt that it would 
have been pleasant to have been a lady for once, and to have 
driven along in a carriage with prancing horses. The girl's 
heart was heavy with disappointment and loneliness as she 
stood at the parlour window, watching the vehicle disappear 
from sight. 

Oh, mighty Fate, that over us miserable mortals rulest 
supreme, with what small means are thy ends effected ! With 
what scornful ease and mean instruments does it please thee 
to govern mankind! Mr. Fitch accompanied the Gann 
family on their drive to the country; Mr. Brandon remained 
behind. 

Caroline, too, the Cinderella of this little tale, was left at 
home; and thereby were placed in the hand of Fate all nec- 
essary instruments of revenge to be used in the punishment 
of Mrs. Gann and the Misses McCarty for their ill-treat- 
ment of our little Cinderella. 

The story of Caroline Brandenburg Gann's youth Is told. 
The fairy prince is at hand, and the short chapter of girl- 
hood and misery is finished. 



355 



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